


The World Will Disagree

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Also Draco has a House in France, Community: harrydracobang, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Imprisonment, M/M, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Mild Smut, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Out of Character Hermione Granger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-06-22 21:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15591000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Harry Potter must decide; does Draco Malfoy deserve redemption? Has he earned second chances and the time to try again? Perhaps. It is hard to decide these things when one’s own life leaves much to desire, when you are watching your friends and family fall apart. When you haven’t sorted out if you yourself deserve to be alive. Impossible, in fact, when the person you are meant to be saving is far less helpless than you first believed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank yous to the Mods of the comp, who did a fantastic job with a lot of work and positivity bringing this bang to life. So many endless, mushy thanks to my Beta, Jade Presley, who kept me sane during this process and then had to deal with the chaos of editing it. Thanks and love to Emerald, who is a wonderful artist and an even better friend.

_I’m not excited, but should I be?_

_Is this the fate that half of the world has planned for me?_

_-_ Vampire Weekend

* * *

  _Prologue_

He shifted his rucksack and took a moment, breathing hard as he stood on the familiar path. The snow of the mountain was blinding, and despite the warmth from the bright sun above he shivered.

This was a terrible, horrifically bad idea. He knew for sure that his plan was going to backfire, but he was in too deep to turn back now. Largely because it wasn't actually much of a plan at all.

He was way too bloody old to be running from his problems, and even worse, he definitely needed to work on his knee-jerk destination choice. With a sigh, he noted the sun settling into a deep vee in the mountain peaks. Terrible idea or not, he was out of time for waffling.

He moved robotically the last five minutes of his trek, and when he reached the door he knocked before he could talk himself out of it again.

The door swung open without hesitation, and Draco’s face fell into an unimpressed line.

"Harry," he said, not surprised, not questioning. It was actually very hard to shock Draco—a symptom of the war, he supposed—but Harry had assumed he'd win at least a slight surprised face for this one.

"Um, hi," he said lamely. "I can explain. I just—"

"You fought with Ron again and you left," Draco interrupted. "I guess you should come in."

They stared at each other across the threshold of the door and Harry felt himself deflate even further. He hadn't thought it possible.

"I shouldn't have come," he muttered.

"Well, no, obviously not," Draco snapped. "Yet, there you stand. More importantly, there’s no one around for about seventy miles and it's almost dark. So unless your plan is to stand in that snowdrift all night, just come inside."

Harry hesitated still, but eventually, he followed Draco inside the cabin and stood awkwardly in the entry of the familiar great room. Draco pulled sheets and blankets from the ancient airing cupboard that had cost more than Harry's flat and dropped them on the sofa before marching up the stairs.

"You know where everything is," he called behind him without a backwards glance.

Harry sighed and dropped his bag, pulling off his boots and going straight to the ground floor bathroom. He stopped short at the door, the familiar scent of jasmine assaulting him. The claw footed tub in the corner mocked him; he was frozen to the core, but there was no way he was taking a bath.

He'd never been in that tub alone.

He pulled a new toothbrush from the box in the cupboard, scrubbed his face with warm water, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. The dark bruises over his eye and the left half of his face mocked him.

"Well, you sincerely are a fucking idiot, Harry Potter," he said, scowling at his reflection.

* * *

Part One: Retribution  
_Azkaban, Winter, 2001_

As he passed through the wards—the ones that detected intention as well as the contents of his pockets—he tried to keep his mind blank. Layer after layer of intrusive prodding stripped away all of his carefully prepared Occlumency. He just barely avoided thinking of the things that would stop him at the entrance to the prison.

He tried not to think about the number of lives he had indirectly taken before he was old enough to shave.

Mood and level of comfort did not improve once he was inside; the darkness was oddly penetrating, an absence of light that somehow still allowed you to see. The dank smell was impossible to get used to, and it assaulted him every time he entered this place. At first, it had taken him days to get rid of it, but now he wasn’t sure he ever stopped smelling it. It was just a part of him at this point.

The walls weren't even really grey. They were the colour of everything when you stuck your head into a lake. Everything was muted and murky, faded and listless. As though there had once been colour, but it had forgotten how to have saturation.

By now, the route to the cell he needed was well worn into his memory. He didn’t register the fact that his feet were moving forward, his brain chanting ‘constant vigilance’ as he tried to look in every direction at once. He stood in front of the cell he required for a full three minutes, still under the deluded belief that today, he wouldn't have to be the first to speak.

The bars weren’t real, of course. Azkaban would never use something so Muggle, so pedestrian. The occupant of each cell had their magic locked to the room in which they lived. Their own magical signature created the parameters of their cell; in his first few months, he had interviewed a woman whose cell looked exactly like her childhood bedroom. It had been eerie and quite sad.

The quintessential ‘bars and four walls’ he was looking at were the product of a bored mind.

"I brought you a jumper,” Harry said finally, clearing his throat and stepping into the weak light.

“I don't know why you bother. They always just take it off me when you leave,” a sullen voice replied, hoarse and monotone.

“Fine,” Harry huffed. “I'll stop.”

Malfoy stood and walked to the bars, reaching out a hand until Harry handed him the jumper. He threw it on and then collapsed back onto the hard bed.

“Right, where were we?” he asked, staring at the ceiling and crossing his legs absently.

Harry wished he would sit up. This way, his attention was drawn to Malfoy’s bare feet; pale and gaunt, the bones jutting at angles, his toes a constant blue from always being cold.

Harry always noticed their feet.

“Ah yes, nine-years-old,” Malfoy continued.

Harry sighed and got out his notebook. It was always like this. With the others, he'd been in and out in two weeks at most. With Malfoy, he'd been here for six, and they were only halfway through his childhood. When Harry tried to push him, Malfoy shut down and refused to speak.

His 'superiors'—if you could call them that—were frustrated, but also at a loss. No one else would go into Azkaban. And certainly not for free. Harry’s title of 'special consultant' gave him far less protection than his perceived insanity created.

But he wasn't insane. Or at least, he didn’t think so. He just needed to be here. He needed to make sense of what he'd seen. He needed to be in charge of who stayed and who got to leave.

"Malfoy, please. I've already said I'll recommend you for release but you've got to give me a few good reasons. Why are we doing this?

The silence of the room echoed around them for a moment, bouncing off the damp walls and into Harry’s head. Just when he thought he wasn’t going to get an answer, as he tried to prepare a new question—one that would let him leave before the chill in his spine lasted days instead of minutes—he heard a quiet clearing of a throat.

“Because if we don't,” Malfoy said quietly, forcing Harry to strain to hear him. “If we don't, my family is just like them to you. If we don't, I turn into Dolohov or Carrow or Lestrange. And we aren't them. I need them to understand. I need them to see who we were before.”

Harry sighed. For whatever reason, he understood Malfoy’s point.

“So, you were nine?” he prompted.

* * *

Draco hesitated for another five minutes before finally launching into the story of how, for his ninth birthday, his father had taken them all to Peru so he could see the native dragons he’d been named for. Slowly, and in great detail, he told Potter how his mother and father had vacationed there the first year they were married, and then later decided to name him after the strength of the solitary animal.

He explained the smell of Peru and the beauty of seeing dragons perched in natural rainforests. He told Potter everything except the true purpose of that trip when he was nine. He decided Potter didn’t need to know that they had been there to convince three of his father’s colleagues to return to England and help locate dark objects that would lead to Voldemort’s return. His story was well rehearsed; clear and unaffected by emotion.

If there was one thing Draco Malfoy was not currently lacking, it was preparation time.

He didn’t like to think about the fact he actually looked forward to Potter’s visits, and if he did accidentally acknowledge it, he assured himself it was just because Potter was his only visitor. He was just lonely and exhausted.

When Potter was there, the rasping, disembodied voices stayed silent. When he was there making notes in his ludicrous little notebook, the scratching on the walls stopped and Draco could hear himself think. Sometimes, lulled into calm by the rare silence, he would fall asleep in the middle of Potter’s scheduled hour-long study. He’d wake to find the man gone, and the bars of his cells once again freezing and solid.

Today, though, he was wide awake. His stomach hurt again; he was pretty sure he was sick, but since no one ever appeared at his cell except Potter, there was no one to tell. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss this fact with the only person who could get him out of here. If he was released from Azkaban, he didn’t want anyone saying it was because he had played a gullible Gryffindor by pretending to be sick. Or however the press would phrase that.

He got through his whole story before having to turn on his side, doubled over in pain. Potter studied him through the bars. He was clearly itching to ask him if he was okay, but he stayed silent.

“Your hearing is this week,” he said instead, voice steady and gentle.

Draco nodded; it didn’t seem like something that required his response.

“Is there anything else you need me to know before I go?” Potter added with a sigh.

Draco shook his head as Potter stood to leave.

“For what it’s worth,” Potter said, packing his bag with his back to the cell. “I don’t actually think you are guilty of much. Except being a right git to people. Well, and you’re definitely racist. And possibly many other things. But not guilty of war crimes.”

Draco snorted, almost genuine mirth wading through the muck that was his brain.

“Gee, Potter, thanks. You’ve gone soft,” Draco whispered, grimacing as another wave of pain washed over him.

Potter hesitated. “You alright?”

“Potter, we’ve discussed that question,” Draco muttered through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, right, sorry. Only—”

“Potter.”

Potter sighed again. “Fine. Best of luck, Malfoy.”

Draco did not reply. The second Potter disappeared down the corridor into the darkness, the voices started again. The harsh rasping sound was barely intelligible as human speech, but they were always very clear in their message. The rhythmic tapping and creaking sounds of nails scratching on walls always started after the voices.

He had not, in the nine months he’d been there, been able to work out the origins of any of the sounds. Most of the time, he simply clapped his hands to his ears and forced his eyes closed. Sometimes he slept, sometimes he didn’t. Today, sheer exhaustion and possibly an overworked immune system forced him into a deep yet completely useless sleep. He woke exhausted and missing his new jumper. This, too, was a mystery. The things Potter brought him always disappeared while he slept.

He supposed the goal of the infernal prison was punishment, not lessons, but Draco had learned one anyway. He had become deeply suspicious of magic. Even his own.

Maybe especially his own.

He turned over in the hard slab of a bed and marked a tally mark on the wall, making himself grin a manic, bizarre grin. He was pretty sure that he was losing it; the cheesy, prison-movie marking system had been a joke between him and Pansy in school: they’d marked a wall in the common room all through fifth year, counting down the end of O.W.Ls. It was far more sinister now; staring at him were Two-hundred-eighty-three jagged lines, carved with an ever collapsing nail into the rough wall. The joke seemed far less hilarious these days, and far more necessary for survival.

There was a moment each day when Draco wanted to cease to be. Not die, per say. He didn’t know where the dividing line was between suicidal and… whatever this was, but he definitely knew there was one. He just wanted to no longer exist. To disappear into the ether. When the mood struck him, he could spend hours focusing on the string of his magic inside him. He pictured it as a murky, broken, green wisp. It grew weaker and stronger as his resolve wavered. It never made any difference.

Tomorrow, just like today, Draco would wake up and sit. He would wake up and pay for being a child who loved his family.

He would continue paying for everyone else’s mistakes.

* * *

Hermione handed him the foul smelling potion and crossed her arms, slanting her signature judgemental look at him. She glared the entire time he went through the awful process of taking the potion that would make him feel slightly less like death. Azkaban left him in a residual haze that mimicked depression, mingled with a fair amount of self-loathing. Both of which he had enough of on his own, if he was honest, which meant he diligently drank the foul concoction she always prepared for him.

He gagged and sputtered while Hermione continued to glare in extreme frustration. When he finally stood still long enough to stare back, she held out her hand for her phial.

“Remind me, why are you doing this again?” she asked with a sneer.

“Hermione, please. Not this. Not today. I’m tired.”

“Well, yes, I expect you are, what with having interrogated a bloody Death Eater all day. Intentionally,” she spat. “And for free.”

“Hermione—"

“Don’t you bloody well ‘Hermione’ me. You and Ron both,” she hissed, stomping back to the workbench in the garage she used as her office. “Doing stupid things because you won’t stop being idiots for three seconds and admit to yourself what this is really about.”

“I hardly think Ron succeeding as an Auror can be classified as ‘stupid’,” Harry drawled in response, sitting down on the floor as dizziness washed over him suddenly.

As angry as she was, a tiny glimmer of concern crept into Hermione’s expression. She held firm in her aggressive disapproval, though, and closed her eyes briefly.

“It is when he hasn’t seen a healer for trauma, just like others I could mention,” Hermione grimaced. “It is when he is too quick to run into battle, just like you.”

“Stop, Hermione,” Harry said weakly. “Seriously. Just stop.”

She finally sighed and walked over to him, hauling him up by the armpit and leading him back into the house.

“I’m glad the healer helped you,” Harry said as he dragged himself along. “But you really need to just accept that we’re all dealing with things differently.”

“I’ll get you some tea,” she said as he settled onto the sofa. “But for the record, I still think you’re being a complete fool and you’re going to just end up hurting yourself.”

She left for a few minutes and Harry could only concentrate on not vomiting all over her rental flat rug, so he didn’t put much thought into what she’d said. Besides, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. No one really understood what he was doing.

When he’d first asked if he could help after the trials, he’d been anticipating being told that he could do some press appearances, maybe make some statements about the battle to high-ranking officials. What Kingsley had asked for instead had been unexpected, but he’d agreed before he’d even left the office, shocking himself and angering his friends for months.

It was a simple request, and that made it a thousand times more complicated. The Ministry wasn’t set up to handle so many prisoners in Azkaban at once, especially not with the Dementors gone. It was dangerous and it was expensive. They wanted to know - because they were the Ministry and this was how they thought - if anyone really needed to be in prison. Particularly, those who were unmarked and underage at the time of the battle. And those whose allegiances had always been ambiguous.

Why they thought Harry was impartial enough to be this judge was unclear; in all honesty, it was ludicrous and that was the basis of Hermione’s problem with his assignment. He figured it had something to do with being just famous enough, with enough lingering respect in the magical world. The hope was that no one would question his pardons.

Or ‘recommendations for rehabilitation’, as the Ministry had decided to spin things.

He hadn’t planned on actually letting anyone out. He, Ron, and Hermione had gone to all the trials; as far as he was concerned, everyone who had been convicted deserved to be imprisoned.

Then, unfortunately, he’d walked into Azkaban that first day and was directed towards a sixteen-year-old Hufflepuff he barely remembered, who’d only been fourteen at the time of the war and had been convicted based solely on the suspicion that her parents had housed some Pureblood suspected-Death Eaters. By the time he managed to clear her and have her released, there had only been six months left on her sentence and her eyes were terrifyingly empty.

He’d drunk himself into unconsciousness that night.

As the months had gone on, the task never got easier. The faces became more familiar. The moments of anger instead of instant compassion multiplied threefold. When he met the mother of Lorne Hywinder, a Ravenclaw who’d been a year ahead of him, and was promptly spat upon as he approached her cell, he almost walked out entirely.

But in between those moments, he found stories that shifted his perspective. Even being rash and thoughtless, as he knew he was at times, it was hard to be faced with stories you had never heard and not find humanity lingering beneath them.

The last year of Voldemort’s life had been a little busy for Harry; the news they’d had was patchy, especially about people he did want to know about. He hadn’t spent much time caring about those he considered to be ‘on the other side’.

It quickly became clear to him that in a war fought against a maniac who had questionable recruitment tactics, black-and-white boundaries did not exist.

It made his Gryffindor head hurt.

The list of people he released grew steadily longer. Parker Avery, for example, who had been convicted solely for his last name, though he’d never gone to Hogwarts and as far as Harry could determine, hadn’t been present at the battle. 

Of course, there were other names. People he did not want to see again. People he didn’t know how to respond to fairly and with neutrality. Pansy Parkinson. Blaise Zabini. Millicent Bulstrode. Names that made him cringe when they appeared on his roster.

As he sat here on Hermione’s couch, nearly a year later, and still feeling ill and tired and broken after one afternoon in the prison, he did keep asking himself just what the fuck he was doing.

Yet, when Hermione came back in the room with a steaming mug, that is not what he said. What came out of his mouth instead was, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to recommend Malfoy for release tomorrow.”

She dropped the mug, and tea spattered all over the floor, all over her leg and her hands. He leapt up to clean it off her with his wand, but she held up a hand and did it herself, inhaling sharply and closing her eyes.

“You said you weren’t going to...not for him,” she whispered eventually.

“That was then, but now—"

He cut himself off as Hermione’s eyes flew open.

“So, you have suddenly found evidence that he isn’t a horrible Blood Purist?” she spat, her voice rising steadily. “One who has always been fully willing to toe the Death Eater line? More than willing to follow orders?”

The harsh words from Hermione—who despite her ferocity, usually used ‘defend everyone’ as a default setting—made him cringe, but he took a deep breath before replying, “Yes.”

“Well,” she said tightly, crouching to gather the mug off the floor. “Well.”

She left the room without another word, and Harry collapsed back on the sofa.

“Malfoy had better not make me regret this,” he murmured as he fell asleep, the potion dragging him into an uncomfortable half-awake state, where his dreams sat at the edge of his consciousness, terrifying yet just beyond his reach.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The now-familiar board room was overly bright this morning, and Harry was glaring up at the oddly-shaped light bulbs when the committee shuffled in. Late, as usual, and wearing their ridiculous Wizengamot hats and cloaks. Harry suppressed an eye roll. It would be easier to deal with the Ministry if they could get their heads out of their own arses.

When they had finally settled into their seats across from him he cleared his throat, quieting the murmured chatter with many disdainful glances.

“Ministers,” he began. “Council members. Thank you for moving our meeting. I have made a decision about my current case, and since he is rather a high profile decision, I felt there was no point in delaying.”

“Right, so the Malfoy boy,” said the old witch with the nasal voice and the monocle whose name he could never remember. “I cannot believe it has taken you this long, Mr Potter. It should have been an open and shut. His family had...V...he who...the Dark…him in their home. He bears the mark! He is obviously one to endure his sentence.”

“I must admit, Harry, we were all rather surprised by your hesitation on this one,” Kingsley said in his signature slow, yet booming voice.

“Yes well, the client was...hesitant,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “The normal process took a little bit longer than usual. Still, I have decided to recommend Draco Malfoy for release and rehabilitation.”

He had expected comedic gasps, a few ‘oh my word’ type statements. Instead, he was faced with a deafening silence that was significantly harder to push through.

Finally, Kingsley made a strange small noise in his throat and Harry’s eyes snapped to his. He hoped they were conveying earnest integrity, but he suspected that he just looked a bit sheepish.

“Harry, are you...positive?” Kingsley asked after a beat. “The evidence against him seems—"

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Harry said, finally earning his gasp by interrupting the Minister for Magic. “You tasked me with learning the truth about each case you handed me. I took that request seriously.”

“Well, we know, and Harry, I mean… we respect your opinion, but the evidence here seems very conclusive,” Kingsley said gently.

“On the surface, perhaps it is. Especially when taken in conjunction with his family name. But as I have said in countless other cases, that is not enough to sentence someone to life in prison. I believe Malfoy has earned a second chance.”

The Ministers looked at each other for a moment, and Harry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

“Very well, Mr Potter,” Kingsley said stiffly. “Please excuse us for a moment while we deliberate.”

For whatever reason, Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he got to the corridor. Perhaps just because the deliberations put him back on familiar ground. Whatever happened now, he could do nothing more. He'd made his argument, done what he could; after six and a half weeks of listening to the quiet, rasping voice of Draco, he felt it was all he could do to just say without emotion that the man should be released. He actually had a small spark of empathy blooming in him for his former Slytherin rival, and it was an odd, uncomfortable emotion he did not relish.

“Harry,” a voice said from the door, interrupting his introspection. “Please join us for the final decision.”

He settled back into his seat, waiting for the council to come to attention. It could sometimes take a while, but this time they quickly fell silent, all staring at him with strangely intense and expectant gazes. It quickly made him uneasy.

“It is the belief of this council that you, Harry Potter, may be the only one to recommend Mr Draco Malfoy for freedom,” Kingsley began. “Still. We have come to respect and understand your thoughts and feelings over the past year. You are in a far better position than the rest of us to understand the wartime mind. It is why we asked you in the first place.”

Kingsley paused as though he expected Harry to interrupt. Harry simply nodded instead.

“We have concerns, however,“ he continued. “Concerns about the depths to which the Malfoy family was involved with Riddle. “

“In defense of the family,” a small witch he didn’t recognise interrupted, “Mr Potter has already told us about Mrs Malfoy and her decision to help him at the end of the battle. And the young child was…”

She hesitated as Kingsley raised a gentle hand, nodding appreciatively.

“Yes, Minister Florence. I have not forgotten your feelings on this,” he said kindly. “The fact remains that we are not unanimous in this decision. Concerns exist. It is the duty of this council to address them. In light of this, Harry…”

He hesitated and Harry grew even more apprehensive; Kingsley Shacklebolt was not a hesitant man.

“Yes?“

“We have decided to grant Draco Malfoy rehabilitation,” Kingsley said with a sigh a moment later.

“Thank you, Minister, “Harry replied robotically.

“On one condition,” Kingsley added hastily. “We have decided that in addition to the standard requirement of one year without the use of magic, Mr Malfoy will be required to successfully complete a rehabilitation course on Muggle life and values.”

Harry wanted to laugh; that ought to go over very well with the prideful Malfoy of Harry’s past. Muggle technology and no magic? He half expected Malfoy would request to stay in Azkaban. The image made him want to laugh a manic, unnecessary laugh. Instead, he kept his face studiously neutral and nodded.

“After the course, we are requesting that you be his... caseworker, for want of a better word,” Kingsley said sadly, steepling his fingers and eyeing Harry carefully. The action made Harry queasy; clearly, this was not Kingsley’s desire.

Harry’s mouth fell open in what he was sure was an utterly stupid expression, one of dumbfounded confusion. The words continued to seep into his brain and became even more ludicrous as he heard them a second time in his recent memory.

“Um,” he started, falling silent with a gulp.

“Harry, do you have any questions?” Minister Florence asked kindly.

“No,” Harry said stupidly, immediately regretting it. “That is to say… I mean, no, Kingsley. I won’t do it! That was not our arrangement. Interviews, that was it. I’m done now. This was the last case. You can’t be serious?!”

Harry was aware that he had gotten very loud, that perhaps the spark of his magic had escaped him. Some of the older council members were looking angry now, and the younger ones were eyeing him with distrust, wands being surreptitiously drawn.

Kingsley cleared his throat, “It is the last case, dear boy. That is why we feel like we can ask you. We have tabs on most of the cases you’ve asked to have released. We’d like you to take over, full-time. Consider it a… a new role, of sorts.”

“No,” Harry repeated, standing now. “No! I am done. I am out.”

“Okay,” Kingsley said, still calm, not moving a muscle even an inch. It was typical of him, and it made Harry angry.

“I think maybe you should explain,” Minister Florence prompted, turning to Kingsley sympathetically.

“We are stretched very thin, Harry,” she said before Kingsley could speak. “We haven’t the resources to… well, if you are unable to assist us in this, I’m not sure…”

“He won’t be released unless you agree,” an older wizard finished for her. “We don’t trust him. He Who Must Not Be Named lived in his house. The others you released were bad enough, but a Malfoy? Please. You can not expect us to want to release him when you don’t even want to spend time helping him return to the magical world.”

Harry sat down heavily in his seat as his mind reeled.

“You’re serious,” he murmured, earning him a solemn nod from Kingsley.

He pulled at the sleeves of his robes, cleared his throat many times, finally sighed as he leaned forward onto the table.

“This is the first time you’ve ever asked for someone to be watched,” he stated slowly.

“It isn’t,” Kingsley replied, shaking his head. “It’s just the first time we’ve asked you to do it. You know him well enough, having gone to school with him. Some of the council fear that things — certain signs — were missed last time.”

“So what? I’m to keep an eye on him and let you know if he starts trying to recreate a Dark Lord Society,” Harry hissed.

Kingsley wisely chose not to reply to his insolence. Harry used the time he was allowed to let the thought turn around in his mind for a moment.

Draco fucking Malfoy; the git who had been his first experience with the bigoted, classist, racist, purist side of magic. A boy who had tormented, bullied, humiliated, taunted, and terrified he and his friends for more years than Harry had even known of the existence of Hogwarts.

Begrudgingly, though, Harry knew him better now, after weeks of listening to his entire life story. The exhausted, weary side of Harry didn’t really hate the idiotic brat anymore. He knew better. The childish schoolboy side of him, however? That side almost wanted to leave him in Azkaban a little while longer.

Even as he thought it, though, Harry shivered. His body flooded with sensory memories of the unnatural cold, the din, the darkness. He saw their feet, blue and broken. He let the voice that made him save everyone take over, as usual, and he closed his eyes as he murmured his answer to the council before him.

“Fine,” he said with finality. He stood and left the room before they could find a way to make him change his mind.

* * *

 The first person—the first human being who wasn’t Potter—that Draco had seen since the day he was placed in Azkaban, was a chubby, older Auror who clearly didn’t spend much time in the field anymore. He called himself Alfie. He didn’t come with a partner. He hadn’t brought weapons or reinforcements. He simply showed up in front of Draco’s bars on morning three hundred twenty-two, with his hands in his robe pockets.

“Malfoy, Draco?” he asked roughly. “Let’s go. Drop the bars.”

“What?” Draco replied in a whisper.

“You’ve been granted freedom,” Alfie finished.

The bars felt without conscious effort, and his arm was held, firmly but not forcefully, until they stepped out into the light of a day that wasn’t that bright. Draco refused to squint, even though sunlight—meek and eager though it was—burned his retinas and made him want to cry out.

Alfie continued to hold his arm as Draco’s bare feet scraped along the rocky ground to a small boat chained to a rickety dock. Alfie’s words were echoing around him as he tried to focus on moving his feet forwards. Snippets stuck with him.

Healer to meet us at the safe house.

Wand will be held in custody until the end of the one year period.

Use of magic will be strictly prohibited and monitored. No strikes policy.

Continued release based on the successful completion of a Muggle Living course.

He both heard and did not hear as he focused on the horizon. He threw up three times over the side of the boat, his stomach clutching constantly in angry protest to the movement of the boat, the light that assaulted his senses, the air that confronted his lungs in a vicious tumult. Alfie didn’t seem surprised. When they reached the shore he didn’t even look at Draco as he spun them into Side-Along Apparition.

The countryside looked familiar in a distant sort of way, as though his memory was not his own. Everything about him, in fact, seemed transplanted. He was free, and though he knew why, he couldn’t bring himself to care; it was like it was happening to someone else.

“Where are we,” Draco said, barely a whisper, unused to this much activity in a day and about ready to pass out.

“Can’t tell you that,” was Alfie’s response, as he unlocked the door to an unassuming house and pushed Draco inside. “Best of luck and all that,” he said before marching away.

Inside, he found Kingsley Shacklebolt, grim-faced and serious.

“Mr Malfoy,” he said gravely when Draco closed the door behind him, faltering as his still bare feet touched a floor that was soft and warm. He stumbled.

“Please, come sit down,” he said, a fraction of gentleness in his eyes, if not his tone. “I know the journey can be stressful. This is Healer Woolfe. She is going to assess you in a short while but we’d like to give you time to rest first.”

“No,” Draco rasped, his voice not sounding his own and his throat giving up the second the syllable had left his mouth. “Please,” he tried again, clearing his throat. “I think—I think I may be ill.”

“Very well,” Shacklebolt agreed, nodding to the healer.

An hour later, he had been given half a dozen potions, been supervised in a scalding bath that contained half a dozen more, had his head shaved short and his ragged clothing thrown into the fire. He was tucked into a large, warm, white bed, wearing fluffy pyjamas and woollen socks. He shivered incessantly anyway, and he could hear murmured voices in the entrance to the bedroom.

“...surprised he isn’t dead, Minister,” the healer was saying harshly. “Is that how they are all treated? You should, with all due respect, be ashamed. I know it’s a prison but… well, I think we all know that the war… Heaven’s above, he’s barely more than a child. He has an intestinal infection and fleas. If the people knew the conditions—”

“I assure you,” Shacklebolt’s deep voice interrupted. “There will be an investigation into his treatment. You must understand. Since the war, the prison… It was never meant to contain—”

“So help me, Minister, if you try to blame overcrowding,” the healer hissed.

“No,” Shacklebolt replied with a sigh. “No, you are right.”

Draco spent the next several hours drifting in and out of consciousness, his body hurting a little less every time he woke up, the potions adjusting slowly to the fact that he was, despite his best efforts, alive.

Finally, he woke in a way that did not feel like drifting. His eyelids chose to say lifted, his muscles feeling twitchy and present. He turned in the bed to find Shacklebolt sitting in a hard, high-backed chair beside his bed, fingers steepled and eyes closed peacefully.

“Does the Minister for Magic have nothing better to do than nurse a Death Eater back to health,” Draco said, in a scathing whisper, all his throat could manage.

“It was my understanding that you were not, in fact, a Death Eater,” came the deep-voiced reply, though Shacklebolt’s eyes did not open.

“There were more ways to contribute without taking a mark, Shacklebolt,” Draco said meanly, staring directly at the man’s closed eyes.

“Yes,” he answered with a nod. “And there were more ways to save us all than fighting alongside Harry Potter. War is never black and white. We both know that. And it’s Kingsley, please.”

Draco opened his mouth to answer, but instead, he dragged his body into a sitting position, a groan escaping him at the ache hit his joints.

“You were very fortunate that Potter moved up your hearing,” Kingsley continued. “I am sorry for that. We will be—”

“Investigating. Yes, I heard,” Draco interrupted.

Kingsley nodded and the two men regarded each other for a moment. Draco had never really known the Auror before the war; the first time he’d seen him properly, he had been sitting in an overly large chair, in front of a ‘council of his peers’, men and women who understood only his last name and his father’s crimes. It hadn’t left much of an impression in his brain, but Draco thought it possible the Minister’s position had already aged him; not that he could throw stones. He hadn’t even seen his reflection yet. He was sure he looked a little older and worn than his twenty years. Kingsley shifted, slightly uncomfortable under Draco’s gaze, and finally sat up.

“What do you know of the next month of your life?” he asked gently.

“Honestly?” Draco replied. “We should probably just start at the beginning.”

“Wise man,” Kingsley said with a slight smile. “Well then.”

He stood and approached the bed. “You have been released under the new wartime reparation act, based on an internal consultation. You must prove you are committed to acting for the good of all Wizards and the Magical world.”

“A lofty goal. I wonder how many of the witches and wizards who remained free could pass that test,” Draco pondered. Kingsley did not reply.

“This release will contain three conditions,” he continued. “One, you are to have no contact with anyone in the Magical world for one year, beginning today. You will be granted a liaison to assist you with settling your past and current affairs, but you will have no knowingly direct contact with anyone else within the Magical community. Unfortunately, this includes family.”

“It would be ludicrous if it didn’t,” Draco intoned sarcastically. “Particularly in my case.”

“Yes, well,” Kingsley said, shaking his head before continuing. “Two, you will be unable to perform magic or obtain a wand for the entirety of this one year period. A trace has been placed on you and your magical signature.

“Lastly, your continued release is dependent on your successful completion of a Muggle Living course, provided by the Ministry but at your own expense. Failure to adhere to any of these conditions will result in your subsequent return to Azkaban.”

Draco nodded and sighed as Kingsley looked at him with a steady gaze. It was clear the man was anticipating arguments or addendums. Draco grew impatient with the attitude surrounding him.

“You’ve never been to Azkaban, have you Minister?” he asked after a moment. “Tell me… how many of your parolees have broken these conditions.”

Silence fell.

“That’s what I thought,” Draco said with a nod. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

“So,” he said eventually. “Who did you have to threaten to convince them to be my babysitter?"

* * *

Harry was supposed to be there the day Malfoy was released. He’d gotten up and put clothes on and everything. He’d even had to move more of Ginny’s things out of his way to find the one buttoned shirt he owned that didn’t have holes in the elbows. He had been meaning to put it all in a box. Meant to do it months and months ago, when she had packed up a suitcase and said, ‘it just isn’t us, this life’, before disappearing into the night. He’d get around to it someday, he supposed.

He’d showered and actually washed his hair. With shampoo. As though to appear competent to be doing this. He’d even picked up an umbrella for the threatening clouds in the sky and stepped onto his porch.

But he didn’t get any further than that, and Kingsley would be able to yell at him later for that, but he couldn’t really care at the moment.

Ron, red-faced and hair shaggy, was standing in the street. Harry did some quick calculations. It was Wednesday. Wednesday wasn’t safe.

“Alright, mate?” Harry called into the street.

Ron just made a strange huffing sound and Harry instinctively put down the umbrella he held, ready to get his hands up if he needed them.

“Alright?” Ron yelled back, far too loud for the situation and with a fuzzy edge that made Harry cringe. “Yeah, sure, mate,” Ron spat. “I’m alright.”

Harry flinched. “How much have you had, Ron?” he called into the street as Ron advanced. “Does Hermione know where you are?”

“What, so now you’re policing where I go, too? What I do?” Ron shouted, his volume not adjusting to the fact that he was now less than a foot away from Harry. “Oh, no, but that’s right… you can’t, can you?”

“Ron—”

“Because you gave up,” Ron said, shaking his head. “All those people died for you, and now what? You’re pathetic, aren’t you?”

‘Ron, look, go home, mate,” Harry said wearily. “We can talk about this another time.”

The swing was clumsy. Harry was ready for it. Sober, Ron was actually very formidable. Harry watched him at the public drills, at the fundraisers, and barely recognised the sober, fighting-form Auror that his best friend had become. Because he never showed up ready to fight Harry while wearing that uniform.

He showed up as the grieving youngest son of a family with one less child than it should have. As a man who had not found a way to recover. The broken man, who was so angry about a war which had ended in destruction, that he came to drunkenly beat up his adopted brother.

Harry ducked out from the swinging fist and caught Ron under the arm as a sob wracked him and he collapsed against Harry’s side.

“Come on,” Harry whispered, placing his hands across the broad shoulders that were crumpled into themselves with pain and whiskey. “Come on. Come inside, Ron. You can sleep it off. I’ll call Hermione. Have you eaten anything?”

It was only four hours and three cups of tea later, with a six-three ginger passed out in his bed, that Harry remembered Draco Malfoy existed at all. When he finally turned up at the little house whose address he had written down on the back of a receipt, Kingsley was on the front steps waiting.

“So kind of you to join us, Harry,” he said in his signature calm baritone.

“I apologise, I...it was an—”

But Kingsley held up a hand and he stopped. “I don’t need to remind you, Harry, that your involvement in this was the only request the council made?”

Harry nodded.

“Whether or not you or I agree with the necessity is not up for discussion,” Kingsley continued. “I know you don’t like him. Fortunately, I am not asking you to be a friend. All I am asking is for is that you give the appearance that we are watching him. I trust your judgement — the others you suggested be released have all been doing well. I don’t know why this particular person bothered the council so much more, however…”

He paused, studying Harry for a moment, who shoved his hands in his pockets uncomfortably.

“Never mind,” Kingsley said a moment later. “Are you going to be objective enough to check in on him, once a week?”

“Yes,” Harry replied without hesitation. “I really am sorry I wasn’t here. I wasn’t being...difficult. I promise. We all…”

He tapered off, embarrassed at the childish words that he wanted to say.

“Yes?” Kingsley prodded.

“I just think people deserve a second chance.”

Kingsley nodded and stepped off the porch, offering Harry a large, ornate key on a ring.

“He is very ill. The healer just left. She will check in with him in the morning. There is no need for you to go in right now.” Kingsley regarded the house behind him and then turned without a word and Apparated away.

Harry stood staring at the house for a long moment. He hadn't considered, when faced with the ultimatum by the council, that being Draco Malfoy’s ‘watcher’ was going to mean seeing, interacting, even speaking with Draco Malfoy. Without bars between them, without intense morose ire and a sense of finality, Harry didn’t know how that interaction went. He didn’t remember a single conversation with Malfoy in school that had ended in anything except insults or fistfights. He wasn’t sure that having endured six weeks of detailed stories of Malfoy’s childhood was going to change anything, now that the man had his freedom and his convictions back.

“No sense lingering here,” he said to himself, opening the door and stepping inside. “Malfoy?” He called into the bare room on the other side. There was no immediate response, and he decided to investigate.

He found an empty sitting room, an old TV set, a kitchen with no cupboard doors. He found curtains that were thick with dust and a bookshelf whose contents had not been troubled for many, many years. Typical of the Ministry, to put zero effort into making a safe house comfortable. He supposed it didn’t matter; according to the pamphlets Harry had been given, duplicates of the ones Malfoy will have received, he had only a few weeks to find Malfoy a flat where he could begin his year of Muggle-style repentance.

“Malfoy?” he called again, opening the last available door, correctly assuming that it was the bedroom.

The bed stood empty, the sheets thrown aside in a hurried whirl of hospital white fabric.

Harry looked down instinctively to the floor, only to find slender, blue-tinged feet that were so familiar he felt ill. Malfoy was prone and groaning, collapsed in a pile of his own sick, still clutching his stomach. Harry sighed and reached down to drag Malfoy up to sitting.

“Did they not give you socks?” he asked harshly. This was not in his job description and he’d had enough of this today. He levelled his wand at the mess and vanished it away.

“Can’t sleep in socks,” Malfoy whimpered. “Took them off.”

“Were you trying to get to the toilet?” Harry asked roughly.

When Malfoy simply nodded, Harry hauled him off the floor and steadied him. Malfoy did not, however, walk to the bed. He continued on his path to the bathroom and sat down heavily beside the toilet. Sighing once more, Harry grabbed a pillow and took it into the loo. He set it down beside Malfoy and turned to walk away. He’d call the healer back when he got outside. He was in no mood to deal with more vomit; one had to have limits, and after a drunken Ron—someone he did care about—he was in no mood to deal with sick from a person he barely knew and certainly didn’t like.

“Wait,” Malfoy whispered, causing Harry pause.

“What?” Harry said, turning. “You’ll be fine. I’m just getting the healer. We can talk about how everything is going to happen another day. Do you need something?”

He wasn’t sure why he was asking, except perhaps that Malfoy was just pathetic enough right now that he felt he should.

“Can I ask you a question?” Malfoy muttered.

“Just one?” Harry challenged, not quite able to keep the venom from his tone.

“You aren't an Auror,” Malfoy continued, ignoring the anger.

“Not a question,” Harry replied, his jaw tightening.

“Rumour was always that you were going to be an Auror,” Draco continued, “but you aren't. Why not?

Harry glowered down at him. “I'm not talking about this with you,” he spat.

“Okay,” Malfoy murmured.

“What, no witty comebacks?” Harry pressed.

Draco just looked at him, curled up, and then vomited again, only just making the toilet. With a heavy sigh, Harry sent a Patronus out from his wand and sat down heavily against the cold tile wall. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be able to leave until the healer arrived.

They sat in silent, awkward company for five minutes. Ten. Finally, Harry curled his knees into his chest and studied the wall as he cleared his throat. Malfoy had not unfurled his body from his clenched, fetal position, and his steady breathing was the only way Harry knew he was technically still alive.

“When we left school, I knew what I wanted,” Harry began hesitantly. He hadn’t said these sentences aloud in quite some time. “I still planned on joining up. With Ron. We'd always talked about it. But he... He's changed a bit. So he got really into... working out and telling me about it and researching. The more he talked, the less I wanted to do it. So I just sort‘ve…”

“Didn’t,” Malfoy finished for him. Harry nodded.

“So now you’re doing...um, this?” Draco asked, stretching out just a bit.

“Unintentionally, but yes,” Harry conceded. “Malfoy, listen. We aren’t...just because I didn’t think you should rot in Azkaban doesn’t mean we are friends. I didn’t listen to your whole life story and suddenly forgive you for being, you know, who you are.”

“Understood,” Malfoy murmured, dragging himself to sitting again, and though he looked pale, he remained upright. “I’m not exactly thrilled to have you here, either, for what it’s worth. If I could have chosen anyone to witness my humiliation as I adapt to Muggle living, it wouldn’t have been you.”

Harry nodded. He really did get it.

“One thing, though,” Malfoy added, hesitating to clear his throat until his voice sounded slightly stronger.

Harry braced himself, his whole body stiffening at the proposition of a request from Malfoy. He certainly still did not trust the slimy git and he was suddenly very aware of his current vulnerability. But Malfoy looked at the floor between them, still clutching his stomach. His eyes were sunken and dark, his hair limp and broken. He was too skinny and too pale, too much of everything that Malfoy was not, in all honesty. It was then, and only then, that Harry remembered Malfoy didn’t have a wand.

Harry forced himself to relax.

“I’m wondering if we can drop the surname,” Malfoy continued finally, not a question, embarrassment colouring every syllable. “We aren’t twelve, and every time you say ‘Malfoy’, I really, really want to punch you.”

Unbidden, a snort of laughter escaped Harry. He thought about it a moment.

“I can try,” he said finally, standing up as a knock sounded at the front door.

“All I can ask,” Malfoy replied as the Healer entered the bedroom.

With the healer standing over him, having given him a dose of sleeping-draught, and something else that had relaxed his clenching muscles, Malfoy looked even smaller, and Harry turned away.

He was not enjoying the image of the remnants of Azkaban.

“Monday at ten,” the healer said to Harry as they quietly exited the room. “That’s when his course starts. He’ll be fine by then. He’s just undernourished and has an infection.”

Harry nodded without replying.

“He’ll be fine until then,” the woman added, a look of concern washing over her face. “I’ll keep checking up.”

Harry looked at her firmly for a moment. “It’s not my job to care one way or the other,” he said harshly, turning on a heel and walking out the door.

He slept the rest of the afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Two: Muggle  
_London, 2000_

* * *

It took another two days before Draco felt strong enough to get out of bed alone. He assumed it was the healer, and not Potter, who was leaving him food. He had seen neither hide nor hair of the Gryffindor since that first, utterly horrifying day in the loo.

 _Harry_ , his brain reminded him. If he wanted to stop being _Malfoy_ , he was going to have to play at courtesy.

He stood on unsteady feet and managed to leave the well-worn path he’d taken from the bed to the bathroom for the past three days. He found recent newspapers and a quill on a kitchen table, boxes of food under stasis charms on the counter.

He ran the tap and drank far too much water straight from it. His sensitive stomach protested but he forced himself to relax and managed to keep it down. He stood at the sink, transfixed by the kitchen window. Or, not the window, exactly. That was rather ordinary, with well-worn, bluebird-covered, ruffled curtains.

Through it, though, Draco could see a tree. One. Just one. It was sad and scraggly, with weak branches and only the barest hint of spring leaves. It caught the breath in Draco’s lungs when he followed the lines of the tree up, higher and higher until he found it’s end.

Blue sky. Spring-tinged, with threatening clouds, but definitely blue. He moved as quickly as he could, barefooted and pajamaed, to the garden door he had seen on his way to the kitchen. When he found it again, he couldn’t help but stare at the knob for a moment.

“Surely not,” he said aloud, studying the key sitting innocently in the door. Finally, he wrenched it open.

He inhaled deeply; the sharp scent of cut grass, distant lilacs, breeze-fresh air, new buds. Of damp earth. Grungy, construction-related smells further away.

Draco stepped outside and found his feet on cold cement. He immediately veered off the path and sank to his knees in the dewy grass; his face was wet, and he knew he was crying. He didn’t care, with the softness of the bent blades beneath his hands and the blazing, blinding light above his head.

It was a long time before he realised he was shivering violently. He finally forced himself to stand, staggering back into the house, his breath coming in ragged jolts as he peeled off his damp bottoms in the middle of the room. He was hyperventilating by the time he finally made it to the shower and figured out how to work the hot water.

He fell to his knees on the tile and sobbed. It had been so long since he’d felt alone enough to sob freely. With no remaining awareness of time, he sat beneath the scorching blast until it began to go lukewarm, and only then did he think to drag the soap on the side of the tub over his body, run shampoo through his hair. He’d have to ask someone if he could have one that smelled more; he was still being overcome by the damp rot of the walls of the prison.

Clean and a semblance of warm, Draco wrapped himself in the large towel he’d been left and took a deep breath, preparing himself as he braved the bedroom mirror.

What he found he barely recognised as human, let alone as himself.

He was pale, which had always been true. Not like this, though; that had been porcelain-like, delicate and Victorian, definitely in need of sun cream, but dignified and elite. This skin was sallow and yellow, broken in places he hadn’t even felt, rough patches across his stomach and elbows. The gauntness of his cheeks caused shadows that cast themselves all the way up to his eyes. He was a living skeleton, bones protruding at stark angles beneath loose skin. His hair, even clean, was greasy-looking and stringy. It was too long, and his cheeks were rough with stubble that never really grew into anything more. His eyes had lost their shine; the grey behind them now was dull and lifeless.

If he’d expected anything better, he might have been shocked, but Draco was not some helpless heroine. It wasn’t in his nature. He was a survivor. He would figure this out. He could.

He _would_.

He settled into the couch in the living room with a cup of water — he’d wanted tea, but he had no idea how to heat water without magic — and completed all three crosswords he found out in the Prophet’s the Healer had left. By the end of the afternoon, his eyes were slightly more normal, less dull and haunted.

He made a decision to stop wallowing; he would fuel his return to his former self with determination alone.

* * *

Malfoy actually had a very good first day of Muggle Training, as he began to refer to it. The first day of the course, he was taken shopping and for a haircut by a surly looking witch called Marguerite who had been deceptively patient. She insisted they shop first.

“No sense in trying to teach you to blend when you look as though you were just in prison,” she’d tutted, taking in his tattered Ministry-provided garb and chattering teeth.

She’d taken him by the arm and Apparated them to Kingston-upon-Thames. It was bright and busy and he was instantly overwhelmed. She took him to a store with just letters as its name, and Draco learned about the wonders of department stores; one place with clothing, appliances, food, all shiny floors and bright lights. Everything you could need, all in one place. He’d wanted to hate it, but he had to admit, the Muggles may have been onto something with this. Being able to buy a very soft, slate blue jumper that he was never going to take off had been good enough. Being able to buy a jumper and a sausage roll in the same shop? It wasn’t half bad. He’d definitely be back here to spend some of his hidden gold on more of these Muggle inventions. He particularly enjoyed the variety of colours.

Marguerite showed him how to make toast and tea on that first day too, and he felt foolish for not noticing the small switch on the kettle in the kitchen. He wasn’t stupid, so he resolutely asked her for books and set himself to learning as much as he could in the many lonely hours he spent in the house when she left for the day. He would not be helpless. He had had many years and a fortune spent on teaching him how to be the master of a large household; if he was going to be free in a world that made half that education useless, then he would just have to relearn.

By the end of the second week of his new reality, Draco had worked out how to use the hob, found a hoover and learned how to plug it in, and could manage to turn on both the radio and the television, though he didn’t actually like either. Each day, when Marguerite arrived to take him into London and show him some new essential life skill, she would smile at him like a patient mother as he excitedly showed her his new found skills.

Draco did fairly well, all told; he’d be proud of himself, in a different situation. But he had never learned to be proud of himself internally; he needed others, people on the outside to __tell__ him. And sure, that was his problem, but it didn’t make it less true. Draco Malfoy currently had no one, because the only person who might have noticed was Harry Potter.

And Harry Potter clearly had no intention of being present for anything that wasn’t strictly Ministry Mandated.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry spent the Monday after Malfoy was released staring at his fridge.

He could have sworn he’d had a plan and a trajectory for his life. He knew he had, once. He’d had plans and goals and dreams. He knew because they were scribbled in his terrible handwriting on a scrap of yellowed and curled parchment that was spello-taped to his fridge. He hated and loved that list in equal measure.

It was a relic; a moment of a time when he had almost managed to be happy. When he looked at it he could almost smell the stale cigarette smoke and decades of curry that lingered. Could see the ugly yellow walls of he and Ron’s first flat. Rural Scotland hadn’t taken too kindly to two blokes, obviously kids, asking to take an apartment together. Harry providing three months rent had secured them a space that was close enough to Apparate down to Hogwarts every day to help with the cleanup, reminiscing and grieving in equal measure.

Neither of them had slept for the first three days. The cottage flat was both too quiet and too empty, and they woke to every sound; it was hard to pretend they weren’t expecting snatchers to pound down their door every night, and before long, they just stopped trying. They’d stay awake all night, keeping each other company with games of exploding snap and chess, as though it was still third year. As though they were still thirteen. As though Fred and Sirius were still alive, and dinner had been served in the Great Hall.

As though they had not just been trying to survive.

Still. Ron put posters on the wall and found photos to put in frames — Fred and George at seven; Harry, Ron, and Hermione at the World Cup; a young and smiling Arthur and Molly holding a constantly squirming Bill; the tattered and worn photo of Lily and James.

Ron was a fair hand in the kitchen and he taught Harry quickly. They wouldn’t starve and the work they did each day made the sleepless nights feel manageable.

They had been good days, considering. Daily work, weekly chats with their friends and comrades. Drinks at the pub with the girls on Fridays, joviality reigning as soon as class let out. Hermione going on and on about eighth year while trying to convince them that Ron and Harry had made a huge mistake by not continuing. Ginny going on and on about Quidditch while being a far better captain than Harry had ever been despite her protests.

Slowly, things returned to what felt nearly normal. Hermione and Ron stayed together, and no one was more surprised than Professor McGonagall, who would regularly ask Ron how on earth he had convinced her to stay. Harry and Ginny were technically together again, but mostly, their happiness existed in the reality of having lots of sex without negotiating a dorm. Or having any of the important conversations that they definitely should have had.

When they weren’t working, he and Ron were making plans; that year, they made list after list. Who would be at their weddings. The jobs they wanted to finish before they were thirty. The places they wanted to see. The things they wanted to learn. Eventually, the coffee table was covered with scraps of parchment that regularly went flying to the floor, exasperating Hermione every time she set foot in the flat.

That was when the Master List had appeared. Half in the bag, Ron had insisted that they be more organised. Harry suspected that a ‘long chat’ with Hermione had been the real instigator, but he let Ron take control.

The year passed them by quickly, but Harry was never worried. He had the Auror application in his hands on the 1st of May. He helped Ron pick out a ring, helped Hermione apply for her first Ministry position, helped Ginny send off her request for Harpies scouts to watch her fly. He felt good. They would achieve great things.

Everyone said so.

As the year drew to a close, Ron and Hermione moved into a dingy flat in London. Harry moved into his own, slightly brighter flat with Ginny; the transition would have been easier if the nightmares hadn’t started again, echoes of the dead invading the empty space when Ginny spent many nights training into the wee hours.

He went with Ron to the physical fitness and medical examinations at the Ministry and was asked if he’d seen a therapist. Losing it on the last question the interviewer asked him hadn’t been the wisest move. When he was offered a position anyway, Harry broke down.

He was just so tired; tired of being _different_ and _special_ and _important_. Ron thrived off this attitude. He loved it, and Harry tried hard to pretend he did too. But he didn’t; he couldn't. So, on the first day of training, he just didn’t go. He took a portkey to the beach instead, spent the day staring at the waves. He felt better and worse all at once, and in the ensuing fight with Ron, he finally admitted to himself that he didn’t want the life they’d planned.

Despite the admission, things did not really begin to go downhill until the second anniversary of the battle. They were to give a speech, help with a commemoration. All three of them had arrived at the school the night before; they'd slept in a heaped mass in the Room of Requirement, finally back to normal and a semblance of what it had been, with only the barest scent of fire lingering — and even that, they may have been imagining. Hermione had cried all night. Ron was still refusing to go to a healer, and Harry had just been avoiding conversation.

The next day, Harry had been the only one who could find his voice.

It fell apart from that day on. The breakup with Ginny. The drinking. Hermione’s distancing from all of them.

Ginny had been first, really, and if he thought about it carefully enough, he usually realised that her disappearance from his life had really been the first time he’d given up. It felt just a little too pitiful to admit, but the truth was there in his lack of stable relationship since the red suitcase.

That red suitcase would probably haunt him for years to come.

He had never once blamed Ginny; at this point, however, he was pretty sure he didn’t blame himself either. She was happy enough, travelling the world, the team at her back and her face forward. She came home and saw him floundering, living in the same broken down flat with hand-me-down furniture, for no reason other than intense laziness. That, perhaps, had always been the problem.

Ginevra Weasley was unapologetic; free and wild, never weak or lazy. She had escaped the shadow of being the baby girl in a large family, survived a war she hadn’t been invited too, and carefully, intentionally, carved out her own space in the world. She had always been enough, all on her own, and she didn’t need a saviour. Harry loved her desperately, but looking back, he had probably also loved her wrong. He'd just wanted to keep her safe, gasping in terror at the thought of his actions hurting her. He wanted adventure behind him. To settle into what he imagined settled to look like, what he needed as an ordinary man. He wanted to keep her there, beside him, for it all.

He hadn't been her answer.

On the day she left, she'd looked at him for a long moment as his vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the soft outline of her hair and the speckles of her skin as she whispered ‘it just isn’t, Harry. It isn’t us’. With gentleness in her eyes, and her head cocked in that beautiful way that was just so familiar, she’d watched him process and take it in.

"The trials end today, Hare," she'd said. "It's all over. For real this time. Maybe, whatever it is that you've been waiting for... Maybe that can start now?"

Yet here he was, more than halfway through twenty, having still done absolutely nothing. Even the thing he’d been pretending was making him useful was over; Malfoy notwithstanding, he was utterly unnecessary to everyone. To everything. It was a very terrifying realisation.

On the first Monday in over six months where Harry Potter was not been expected at Azkaban, he woke with a start, a pounding in his head that would not be relieved no matter what he tried. He ignored it until mid-morning, rolling around in bed, neither sleeping nor waking.

Finally, stumbling down for coffee, he had frozen at the kitchen door, seeing the yellow, creased parchment like it was taunting him. He started it down for more than an hour before he finally broke. It wasn’t offering him any advice, and of course, ‘release twelve, possibly slightly guilty suspected Death Eaters from prison’ was nowhere on the list. But that was all he’d done with adulthood so far.

His coffee empty and his brain circling a metaphorical drain, he leapt from his seat and pulled the list from the fridge. Harry, a man of action, needed to just _do_ something. He pulled a folder of parchment down from where it hadn’t been touched since school and began writing each list item in giant loopy letters at the top of sheets.

_Choose a career_

_Get married_

_Buy my own proper house_

_Send Arthur and Molly on a vacation_

_Set up memorials for families_

_Visit seven new countries_

_Explore England_

He got hung up a few times; he didn’t really know how to deal with ‘have three children before 30’, and the itch in the back of his brain that suggested he ‘maybe just try properly dating a bloke’ was not ready to see the light of day.

As Harry sped closer and closer to existential crisis, his hair a torn mess of tangled curls, and his too-short pyjamas damp with panicked sweat, he jumped at the door latch opening at the front of the flat.

“Harry?” a familiar voice called.

“Luna?” he called back. He hadn’t made it out of the kitchen before he collided with the silver-haired girl, with a flower crown and sandals in March, and the smell of lilacs drifting in her wake. “Luna,” he repeated, a revenant whisper. She reached forward and was hugging him before asking permission, just as Luna had always been apt to do.

He was crying and clinging to her before he even knew what he was doing. She pulled back and looked at his lists, scattered on the floor.

“Yes, Ginny mentioned you might have a story,” she said gently. “I’m happy to see you too, Harry, but do you think perhaps we should get you out of the kitchen?”

He laughed and nodded, and followed her out of the room. He told her the whole story and by the time he had finished, he was much calmer. The entire situation suddenly seemed far less catastrophic.

“You worry too much,” Luna said when he explained why all the paper was on the floor. “I’ve been telling Ginny that for years. I mean… you can’t help it, all those wrackspurts. They just love you, don’t they?”

Harry smiled. “I really missed you, Luna,” he whispered.

“Well, I’m here for a while now. Which means you and I are going to fix up this flat.”

“What?” Harry laughed, watching as Luna stood up and spun in a slow, wide circle around the living room.

“Well, it’s looked this way since you moved in. It doesn’t even look like you live here. That’s not good for anyone. You need to let your life start!” Luna sang. Unlike when Ginny had said essentially the same thing, Luna’s bright, sunny smile made him look around and wonder. What would it look like if he… bought some pillows? Or put up a couple of paintings? He’d been meaning to add a few photos to the walls since day one.

He contemplated all these things and he looked at Luna in wonder.

“Exactly,” she said with satisfaction. “Let’s go.”

As he showered and changed, he looked around his bedroom with a critical eye. Luna was right; his flat looked like he was a spy. He could pick up three or four things and disappear into the night. Until, that is, he opened the closet. The Ginny closet, where he rarely dove except to get the trainers he threw there so he didn’t trip on them in the middle of the night.

He’d just pulled a t-shirt over his head when he realised the truth; Luna was right. Honestly, she usually was, and always had been. He’d learned over the years to just listen to her. It hadn’t taken anyone except Ginny to convince him of her worth, and the second he actually started listening, not just hearing Loony Lovegood, he’d discovered her superpower; telling him exactly what he needed to hear.

He pulled a duffle from the horrible closet and began shoving things into it; it was still somewhat expanded, but the spell had worn down and it started to bulge as he added multiple pairs of shoes. Finally, he shoved in his pillow, turned off his alarm clock, and closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath.

“Luna,” he said, finding her in the living room talking to his pot plant.

“All set?” she asked brightly. He gulped. He didn’t want to disappoint her. He wasn’t even entirely sure why she was here.

Why was she here, offering to help him just when he needed it?

“Luna,” he repeated, the realisation donning on him and sending colour high into his cheeks. “Lu, you’re here to get Ginny’s things, aren’t you?”

Luna looked at him for a moment and then broke into a shy smile. “Not only to get Ginny’s things.”

He smiled at her sadly. “You definitely need to do that for me. I’ve tried… I promise I’ve tried. I managed to move it all into the closet in the bedroom.”

“I meant it, though, Harry,” Luna said with a wistful sort of look. “I’m here to help.”

“Change of plans,” he said, breathing deeply. “I can’t stay here. I need to… I just need to start over.”

Luna smiled broadly. “I was hoping you’d feel that way.”

Harry laughed. “Of course you were, Lu. Can you… Do you think you’d be okay to clean it out?”

“Of course!” Luna said brightly. “Oh! Before you go, I have something for you!” she added, still grinning. “Two things actually.”

She reached deep into her robe pocket and them pulled out; the first, clearly a folded piece of parchment. The second was about the size of a pack of cards, squishy and misshapen and wrapped in soft fabric.

“This one isn’t actually from me,” she said, holding out the paper. “I ran into Kingsley when I was leaving the Ministry the other day. I went to drop off the new flower I found for the registry.”

“You found it!” Harry exclaimed. “Way to bury the lead, there, Luna.”

She waved him off. “I found it, but it’s not a big deal. Anyway, this is from Peru. For you. Don’t make a fuss.”

“Me, make a fuss,” Harry laughed. “Who was it that made a huge deal last time you came home without gifts? GINNY. Why everyone paints me as the whiny one —“

“Just open it, Harry,” Luna laughed.

He did, carefully unwrapping the glossy fabric to reveal a soft, brown pouch that made Harry’s heart clench.

“Luna,” he whispered. “But. But, how…”

“I told you, I have contacts. Just say ‘thank you, Luna’, and then stop living in the ghosts, okay?”

“Thank you, Luna,” he murmured, placing Hagrid’s restored mokeskin pouch over his neck and tucking it beneath his shirt where it settled comfortably on his ribs. He hadn’t had it on in years, but it felt like he’d never stopped wearing it. He unfolded the parchment to hide impending tears; he was pretty sure that Luna had already dealt without enough of his emotions today. He instantly regretted his choice.

“What? Bad news?” Luna frowned.

“No… yes?” Harry hesitated. “Just… complicated. Kingsley needs me to help Malfoy find a flat.”

“Fun!” Luna exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “You can look for yourself at the same time!”

“Luna…” he started. But it was pointless. Luna, being Luna, would find a positive spin on this no matter what. “Yeah, I guess I can,” he conceded instead.

“Do you know where you’ll stay? I’d offer, but I am living in Ginny’s flat, and somehow…”

“No, no,” he said, waving her off. “I, unfortunately, know exactly what I am going to do. Are you sure that you—"

“Off you go, Harry,” Luna hummed, gripping both his shoulders and shaking him lightly. “When you come back, I’ll have taken out all the horrible _girl_ things that have been clogging up your life.”

Harry laughed as she pushed him to the door; he was happy, excited even, until he Apparated and was standing on the walkway to Ron and Hermione’s Ottery St. Catchpole house with an impending sense of dread.

He knocked with so much hesitation that he had to do it again because the first time sounded like something blowing in the wind. Hermione, her hair in its ‘I’m working why the fuck are you bothering me’ bun came flying in full motion to the door.

“Harry,” she said, face falling. “I thought you weren’t going to the… the place, anymore.”

Harry winced. The assumption that he was only here because he needed something hurt. But was, unfortunately, also accurate if he looked back on their interactions over the past six months; he’d stopped coming for dinner when every conversation had led to a fight with Ron or a lecture from Hermione or a combination of the two with too much alcohol involved on his and Ron’s part to be worth anything at all.

“Hermione, no, I just…”

“Well, come in,” she said dismissively, leaving the door open and heading back to the kitchen.

“I thought you weren’t brewing in here anymore?” Harry said, gazing at a stove covered with pots.

“Yes, well, not usually but Ron is… Ron is practising in the lab.”

“Ron is sleeping on the sofa again? But it’s Monday,” Harry wondered, largely to himself.

“We aren't talking about Ron,” Hermione grumbled angrily.

“No, of course, we aren't,” Harry replied through gritted teeth. “Why on earth would we talk about Ron? It's not as though he's drunk more days than he isn't and fighting all of his friends with literal fist fights.”

“Harry, why are you standing in my kitchen? Did you need something?” Hermione asked, her voice taking on a very complicated edge that made Harry want to scream.

It was almost enough. Almost enough to make him walk out; he loved them, both of them, but no one was talking about anything and even for them, it was getting a bit ridiculous. Then, he thought about the options available; go back to his flat? To a hotel? Out to Scotland to see Neville? But that wouldn’t work, because of the Malfoy problem. He clenched his jaw and took a moment; if he was here, maybe he could help. Maybe he could find a way to get through to Ron, through to Hermione. Maybe they could start to fix what was broken.

“I need somewhere to stay. For a few days. I’m looking for a new flat. And I won’t be around much because—”

“Because you are chaperoning Malfoy,” Hermione finished. “Well, obviously you can stay. You know that.”

She paused and looked at him for a moment.

“Harry,” she said gently. “Harry are you sure?”

“Of what?” Harry said, laughing meanly. “Not that it matters, because regardless, the answer is no. Do you actually care?”

He’d gone too far; he watched Hermione’s face fall and she might as well have just slapped him. He slumped down and stepped forward, bundled her into his arms. She whimpered very softly and he wanted to punish himself like Dobby was in the kitchen with them. How dare he make Hermione Granger cry.

“It’s just a rough patch, Hermione. He’s going to be fine,” he said soothingly.

“Are you?” she whimpered. “Am I?”

“I think so,” Harry said. “I hope so.”

An hour later he was back out of the house, marching through evening breezes to meet the letting agent that would take him through the process of finding the pickiest fusspot Slytherin in the world a rabbit hole to hide away in for the year, and he was honestly not sure how he was feeling about anything at all. All he knew for certain was that soft leather pouch around his neck, with a photo of four smiling teenagers tucked safely inside, was currently the only part of himself he understood. Which was fine, he supposed.

No one but him could take that away; he just had to remember not to do it before it was too late to stop himself.


	5. Chapter 5

A month. Draco had been free, without bars or walls or magical wards to keep him contained, for an entire month. The morning of this little anniversary appeared without any hullabaloo. Had his mother been with him, there likely would have been bacon and fancy brioche french toast, and coffee from Spain laced with the Irish cream that was reserved for special occasions.

As it was, Draco decided to celebrate the fact that he had purchased milk and tea with Muggle money all on his own, and knew how to plug his kettle in and boil water. He stood at the back door with his mug of tea, wearing a very self-satisfied grin and attempting not to let the sadness creep in.

People had always told him that he was dependent; they’d been telling him for so long, in fact, that he had believed it to be a part of his character. Then, he’d teetered on the threshold of a war and watched as everyone he had always trusted became unrecognisable, fighting for a cause he didn’t really understand. When the dust finally settled, he’d had to reevaluate. The decision to help defeat Voldemort hadn’t been bravery, not in the sense that some people wanted it to be; but it hadn’t been cowardice or self-preservation, either, as the other side saw it.

The small instances where he had managed not to help Voldemort win had only been independence. A deeply buried personality trait he honestly hadn’t been aware he possessed. This week, with new challenges at every turn, he’d learned something about himself.

He was actually pretty fine all on his own.

He was as shocked as anyone, but it remained true. He sipped his tea and realised he’d not been content, just truly content, in a very, very long time. The last moment he remembered enjoying his life had been in fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament, cheering with the others for Hogwarts to finish first; true. He’d been his typical self to Potter’s face, but the feast, the ball, and the evenings with the other schools? He’d been his happiest and truest self that year.

There were crocuses on the lawn, purple and happy. He stepped onto the patio and picked a few. He only let himself feel guilty for a moment as he ran water and put them in a drinking glass on the table. He was done feeling guilty for trying to make his life more comfortable. Besides, he needed the bolstering the blooms provided.

The list that he’d tacked to the fridge for today was daunting. Marguerite wanted him to start looking for a job. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to work. He preferred to be busy and feel useful, and always had. He just wasn’t convinced he was ready. Muggle jobs required Muggle interaction, and he was convinced he didn’t know enough about them to pull it off. Plus, the bus was now his number one enemy. What kind of transportation moved that slowly. And stopped every three seconds? It was inefficient to the point of insanity.

His protests had gone unanswered during his Muggle history lesson the day before. The hour spent at his kitchen table each day was tedious at best; relearning details of a world he didn’t really understand, from a course he’d barely paid attention to during school. Plus, having the details explained without the lens of magic. It was exhausting, and Draco was always left with the overwhelming sense that Muggles were the strangest humans on the planet.

“I can’t _work_ with them, Margo,” he’d said in exasperation. “I only just learned that they believe the crop circles are caused by _aliens_.”

“Well, yes. They don’t believe in Dragons, remember?” she had said, amused. “But Draco, you’ll be fine. You’re an extremely fast learner. I have a place that would be perfect—a bookshop. I know the owner. Completely Muggle, exceedingly kind. You don’t need to worry, you’re doing well.”

“Why are you so convinced I’ll be fine?” he’d replied sulkily. “I’m a Death Eater, remember.”

Her face had darkened momentarily and he felt guilty; she really was just trying to help him, in her unfaltering and patient way. He was an asshole who was bad at not saying the wrong thing at all times.

“Sorry,” he’d muttered.

She smiled weakly. “You should work on redefining yourself this year. No one else will be able to do it if you don’t do it first. Call the bookstore, Draco.”

And so here he was—in the kitchen with a cup of tea wearing a Muggle button down and Muggle trousers and fantastic Muggle leather shoes that he definitely shouldn’t have bought—ready for a Muggle job interview to pretend he was completely normal and wanted to work in a bookshop.

Like a Muggle.

He shook his head and laughed at his reflection in the glass of the door.

“Well, Draco,” he said to himself. “Best get on with it then, hadn’t you?”

When he finally got back to his dingy little house on the corner lot, with its weeds in the grass and it’s broken down fence, Draco had never been happier to see somewhere he kind of hated; the day had been even more trying than he’d originally planned. The shop was two zones away, and he’d had to take two buses to get there. He’d missed his first transfer by three seconds, despite running and being almost completely sure that the driver had seen him running. By the time he’d shown up at the shop, he was twenty minutes late, sweating, and had hair in his mouth. Nonetheless, he’d smiled and laughed and played the perfect twenty-something-blonde man looking for a job.

He’d left with a job and a book list, and also a ‘millionaire square’, which was probably the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten.

As happy as he was, the reversal of his journey hadn’t really gone better, and he’d decided to walk from the first bus. He was hot and flustered, and his feet had blisters from his expensive, but not properly supportive shoes. He was really looking forward to eating the salad he’d thrown together before he left, a thing he still knew how to make since it had never required magic.

He tried to open the door only to find that the lock was already disengaged, and panic leapt into him for a moment until he remembered that no one knew he was here.

No one except —

“Where have you been?” Potter inquired, rising from the couch —a place he’d clearly been for a while — with the smooth bold movements of a person who didn’t have to excuse himself for rudeness. It irritated Draco.

“Out,” Draco replied shortly. “Why are you in my house?”

Potter looked at him with a flash of annoyance of his own, but stuck his hands violently in his pockets and cleared his throat.

“That’s why, actually,” he answered. “This isn’t your house. The Ministry needs to keep it as a safe house. It’s time to get you into a flat somewhere. I have a few places lined up.”

“What—now?” Draco asked, bewildered. He’d just started to get his feet under him. “I’ve only been here a few weeks.”

“They only gave Pansy two days,” Potter said significantly. Draco nodded. It was the first time either of them had acknowledged that he wasn’t the only Slytherin who been freed from Azkaban. He didn’t like the implication; he knew that this power balance was twisted and uneven, but he didn’t need reminders. He looked around at the dank walls of the living room, the sagging furniture and the chipped paint on the floorboards, and nodded a second time.

“Can I…do you mind if I go change?” Draco asked calmly. “And maybe eat? I…it’s been a long day.”

Potter regarded him calmly for a moment and sat back down. “Go change,” he said. “But we can grab some food on the way. Um. My treat. I haven’t eaten yet. We have some time before we meet the agent.”

* * *

 

The progression from barely knowing Potter to having to spend way too much time in close proximity was strange. Draco was a student of the details. And most of Potter’s details were extremely irritating.

The man tapped his legs when he was bored. He bit his cheek when he was trying to stop himself from speaking. He walked with a weird, skipping sort of step that would have made him look like he was galloping if he was taller. He moved his curly fringe out of his face way more often than was necessary and adjusted his glasses like they were actually just floating on his face. He seemed to go out of his way to make sure his motions were noticed, seen, and yet hated attention, as far as Draco could tell.

It didn’t help that Draco quickly discovered that he _hated_ flat hunting. There were random words he didn’t understand and it felt intrusive and wrong to show up when someone was at home eating dinner, even if they were always jovial and kind. He’d never moved before, save going to Hogwarts, and he suddenly understood why Blaise had always been complaining about it at the start of every school year. He hated the moment when the letting agent would open the front door, with a look of expectation and pride in a thing they didn’t even own. He hated when they asked ‘so what do we think?’, as though they were going to share an opinion and also the flat. He hated that Harry didn’t understand what Draco was looking for, what he was checking.

But most importantly, he hated that he didn’t actually hate any of it.

Every other evening or so, the day would end with Margo. Promptly at four, with her patting his shoulder like a mother, she would congratulate him on finishing another day and Apparate from the porch. Draco would then scurry around, shoving food in his mouth while tidying or changing his jumper, until Harry showed up at five fifteen, with a list of two or three flats they were meant to be visiting.

The days when this didn’t happen, Draco was at a loss. He didn’t know how to fill his time without potions or Quidditch, without homework or purpose. When he’d finally found the bravery to tell Margo, she’d laughed and told him he needed a hobby. She’d brought him a bunch of cookbooks and a fire extinguisher and told him to ‘just experiment’. He was trying, but still. He knew he was dragging out the house hunting and he knew Harry was definitely getting annoyed.

The flats he looked at all had one thing in common, though; they were not The Manor. They were not home. They didn’t smell like a hundred different fresh cut flowers as you moved between rooms. They weren’t four different temperatures depending on how close you stood to the fire. They didn’t have the gloomy light of dingy libraries, or the soaring brilliance of the atrium. And for some reason, he couldn’t see past those things.

His choice to nitpick was definitely a conscious one, but he knew that soon, he’d have to suck it up and just choose.

* * *

 

Harry Potter, never known for his patience, was just as confused himself. The afternoons with Malfoy definitely filled his time, but that surely wasn’t enough of a reason to look _forward_ to them. He didn’t, of course he didn't, but still. There was a certain rhythm to the ridiculousness of Malfoy evaluating a flat that was starting to become almost soothing, entertaining.

“Well, I dunno… that one only had one closet,” he announced on their fourteenth night of house showings.

“Draco,” Harry all but shouted. “We are quickly running out of flats the Ministry will agree to pay for. You're just going to have to choose.”

Draco looked at him with the most scathing glare he’d been on the receiving end of since school, and Harry smiled in response. This, at least, hadn’t changed. They could easily, almost without any effort, goad each other into reverting to twelve-year-olds. It was hardly professional, though, and Harry was about to apologise when Draco grinned back.

“Well, Potter,” he declared. “I'm sorry we aren't all used to sleeping on a couch in our friend's living rooms.”

“How did you even hear… Who… It’s a bed underneath…” Harry tried. Eventually, he shook his head. “How was that place not an improvement over the first one? And more importantly, you just got out of prison.” Harry froze, embarrassed by his own line of thought. “I mean. Sorry. You know what...”

Harry grimaced. He was trying, honestly, he was. He didn’t intentionally say nasty things to Malfoy, but sometimes, the arsehole just made it hard not to lash out.

“What?” Malfoy replied, a twisted grin on his face. Harry exhaled; Malfoy was trying to wind him up, as usual. He wasn’t going to rise to the challenge.

“Sorry,” he said again. “That was unnecessary, and—”

“Very Harry Potter of you,” Malfoy interrupted, smiling again. “You aren’t wrong, though. These flats do have some advantages over Azkaban—windows, for instance. And walls.”

“I really didn’t mean anything, Malfoy.”

“ _Draco_ ,” he corrected lightly. “I’m not really as picky as you think I am, you know. It’s just, I'm going to have to live without magic for the next year, and without help. I find I'd rather like to be able to open the doors without power tools and plug in a kettle without dying.”

Harry almost laughed. Malfoy looked at him curiously, the change of tone in the conversation clearly throwing him off. Harry tried to rearrange his face; serious, distant. Professional.

He gave up when Malfoy’s gaze grew hard and more piercing; whatever Harry’s face was doing, he was not succeeding. He sighed and folded his arms protectively.

“It’s just strange,” he shrugged. “To hear you speak of power tools and plugs. You’re retaining more than anyone thought you were going to in that Muggle studies course.”

The sentence was the first reference to the Ministry Harry had allowed today, and the slight laugh it got from Malfoy proved that he’d both noticed and appreciated the farce of ‘I’m just a mate helping you find a flat’ that Harry had been attempting of late.

“Well,” Draco chuckled. “I wasn't exactly given a choice, was I. What's next?”

Harry turned, ready to head to the next flat, but then paused and looked sternly at Malfoy. “Wait, how did you know?” he asked suspiciously

Draco looked at him curiously.

“About the sofa?” Harry clarified.

Draco’s face paled. It made Harry nervous.

“Don’t be angry, I’ll stop,” Draco expelled. “She shouldn’t get in trouble just because —“

“You realise that you are really just making matters worse right now, right?” Harry interrupted. “What have you done?”

Draco sighed and looked at the ground. “Luna has been writing to me.”

Harry stared at him hard for a moment and considered; Luna writing to Draco wasn’t that surprising if he looked at the situation objectively. They had some sort of weird war bond that she refused to ever talk about. And she was Luna. The Ministry hardly worried her. If she’d decided to write to Malfoy, she was going to write to Malfoy.

“It’s fine,” he whispered eventually. “I’m not going to say anything. Just...you know, be careful. It’s technically against your—“

“Yeah, I know,” Draco said in a grateful rush. “I will be. I—”

Harry eyed him cautiously and found that Draco was staring at him in bold-faced shock.

“What?” he asked self-consciously.

Draco looked away quickly. “Nothing,” he muttered. “I just keep forgetting who I’m dealing with.”

“What do you mean?”

Draco looked back at him again with a slight sneer that was made ineffective by an embarrassed blush. “Saint Potter,” he replied, before walking away down the street.

Two words, and all of Harry’s joviality vanished. All mirth flooded out of him; they’d been at this for three hours. Harry sighed, exasperated. “Look I'm over this,” he huffed. “I've been over it for about two weeks, but unfortunately for both of us I'm stuck here because…”

“What?” Draco prompted nervously, looking over his shoulder as he hesitated.

“Hmm… Well, I've only just realised that this isn't actually my job, is it?” Harry mused. “Because no one is actually paying me. My job description is just ‘make sure he doesn’t do dark things again’. No one said anything about helping you paint your cupboards.”

Draco smirked and crossed his arms, staring at Harry, amused. “Did you just admit you've been helping me without getting paid?” Draco asked, viciously gleeful. “You know, for all the mocking… you and I are quite similar.”

“What?!” Harry exclaimed. “No, we aren’t!”

“Whatever, rich boy. Anyone who can afford to not be working for over six months really hasn’t got a leg to stand on in the whole ‘you are a spoiled brat’ argument,” Draco laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m going to know more about Muggles than you soon.”

“Just… shut up, Malfoy. Kingsley and I agreed that—and also—you know what, no. I don’t think I want to talk about this with you,” Harry said, essentially to himself. “Well then. Guess I'll be off.”

He began a leisurely stroll down the street, and in his peripherals, he watched Draco panic, which brought him a slight, pleasant pang of satisfaction. He really had been trying to tamp down his cruel streak today, but, as usual, Draco Malfoy had made that impossible. He was about to Apparate when he hesitated at the fall of the haughty man’s arms to his sides. He looked so defeated, and something in the bottom of Harry’s stomach resisted.

“Wait,” Malfoy blurted, noticing Harry’s reticence.

Harry paused. Regardless of his hesitation, he refused to give him the satisfaction of backtracking.

“I’ll pay you,” Malfoy continued.

“What?” Harry said, turning back around.

“I'll pay you,” he repeated. “To keep helping me.”

“Excuse me?” Harry strode back to Malfoy, irrationally angry. “Has it escaped your attention that you are broke?” he yelled. He’d explained numerous times already that he was around until Draco got his magic back, and it was maddening for him to suggest that he could be bought, like he was Draco’s help, like Draco was in charge of their interactions. But of course, that wasn’t what his angry brain latched onto.

Harry Potter, when angry, never focused on the relevant facts.

Malfoy cowered just a little, and that made Harry angrier. It wasn’t like he ever forgot that Draco was just out of prison. It would be nice if he could just get angry like he always had in Malfoy’s presence before, but even that made Harry feel like the bully these days.

“You aren't just going to be able to pay everyone off anymore, Malfoy!” he added furiously.

“Draco,” Malfoy insisted quietly, his throat catching on the second syllable. He inhaled carefully and was slightly louder when he said, “But listen. I have a job. So I'll pay you. It's more than the ministry is doing and—”

“What?” Harry deadpanned.

“Harry, please don't make me keep repeating everything I say. It'll get old very fast,” Malfoy answered patiently.

“You have a job,” Harry stated.

“Yes,” Draco confirmed. “At a bookstore.”

“A Muggle bookstore,” Harry clarified, genuinely surprised.

“Well, I'd hardly have been hired by any wizards right now, would I?” Draco sneered.

Harry took a moment to consider Draco Malfoy, working like a commoner. And with Muggles, no less.

“So you are going to work,” he asked. “With books. And Muggles.”

“I like books.” Malfoy shrugged. “But it’s true that I don't really get the Muggles. Not really.”

“How did you even get a job?” Harry sneered, not caring that he sounded like a brat.

“Oh, I can be very charming when necessary,” Malfoy said offhandedly. “It didn’t hurt that the woman interviewing me clearly had a thing for gay men, so I just played it up a bit.”

“Malfoy, that's disgusting,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. The new information of ‘Malfoy- _gay_ ’ barely filtered through his frustration.

“Agreed.” Malfoy shrugged again. “Needs must, however. I even told her I had a dish of a boyfriend who she's now dying to meet, so I guess I'd better work on that. So. You’ll help me?”

“W-what?” Harry faltered.

Malfoy grinned again, clearly feeling like he had the upper hand back. “The flat, Potter. I need help.”

“Oh. Yeah. Fine,” he grumbled. “But only because I fear for the lives of the Muggles involved otherwise.”

Harry had been mostly joking, but as Malfoy’s face fell into a slightly-wounded-but-almost-neutral expression, he found he couldn’t muster his usual glee when pissing off Draco Malfoy. Something in Draco’s hesitation had shifted, and it was frightening. Harry decided to press on.

“I was kidding, Draco,” he said eventually. “I’m here anyway, remember?”

“Yes,” Draco said quietly. “Someone has to keep an eye on me so I don’t destroy the world. Don’t worry.” He turned and walked down the sidewalk, back to Harry as he added, “I haven’t forgotten.”


	6. Chapter 6

Harry was angry well before he yelled at the poor letting agent who let them into the last place the next day. He had gone back to Ron and Hermione’s the night before only to discover that she had exploded some sort of sticky black potion all over the garage. She’d done her best to remove it, but most of his clothes were beyond saving. So today, he was wearing an old, worn jumper of Ron’s that was miles too big, with its sleeves hanging past his fingertips. He was angry, but Hermione had been crying so hard when he got there that’d he’d just silently cleaned up everything he could late into the night. Now, he was exhausted and irritated, and the weather had turned sometime in the early morning. Spring, it seemed, was a long way off. It was freezing and pouring tiny ice shards down on them.

The flat was in the most bizarre corner of London Harry had ever seen; it was clean and posh, but the price point didn’t match. There was a green space across the road and a shop at the corner and the Ministry had agreed to pay the rent. Malfoy already looked pleased, and Harry was about to punch him for it; if he knew what was good for him, he’d take this bloody flat.

The poor letting agent sensed the tension immediately, and Harry didn’t have the energy to hide his irritation from her.

“Nasty,” Draco remarked when she offered to stand outside while they looked around.

“Just shut up and do your many, many inspections. The sooner I get to go home the better off we’ll all be. I am so sick of people fucking me over. In general, but today especially. I’m not sure why I’m surprised — they always do.”

Draco turned to study him a moment before turning back away and muttering, “That’s a pretty cynical point of view, Potter.”

“What do you mean?” Harry grumbled. “I fought against an evil maniac and his loyal followers for years. People are not to be trusted. How is it you don’t feel the same way? Considering... you know, everything.”

Malfoy shook his head as though he was amused and wandered into the flat with his hands in the pocket of his wildly-inappropriate-for-the-weather cotton military jacket. The damn thing had been bothering Harry since he’d arrived to find Malfoy soaking wet, jacket unzipped and hood flipped. He hadn’t even looked miserable about his wet hair and soaked trainers, and it was extremely unsettling. When he’d pointed it out, Malfoy had just shrugged and muttered “used to using _Impervious_. Forgot an umbrella”, then walked away to ask about the number of windows in the flat.

“Is that funny to you?” Harry demanded now. He knew he was trying to pick a fight, and he knew he was the only one. He still couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Malfoy cleared his throat and shrugged again. That unfeeling shoulder movement was really starting to piss Harry off.

“Well, Malfoy? Why is it so hilarious that I can’t bring myself to see the good in people,” Harry bellowed. Draco just stared at the windows.

“There’s this old philosophical thought experiment,” Malfoy remarked eventually. “It asks whether people are born inherently good, or inherently evil. It’s... nature versus nurture. You know. By Hobbes, I think? Doesn’t matter.”

Harry was baffled. Not only had Malfoy instantly lost him, but they didn’t seem to be fighting; instead, Malfoy’s tone was calm and jovial, simply having a conversation, like he was debating with a peer. A very smart, posh peer who understood what the fuck he was talking about. This non-combative attitude seemed like a trap. Harry didn’t know how he was supposed to respond, so he just… didn’t.

These non-reactions were becoming uncomfortably familiar to him at this point. He usually had a retort for people, especially for Draco. A response of some sort, even if it was dumb and childish or made no sense. He spoke out of turn and got angry first. It was who he was.

Malfoy didn’t seem at all phased by the silence, or by the distress it was causing Harry. He just carried on with his search for mysterious flaws in the flat; knocking on the floor with his toe, adjusting light switches, inspecting crevices in the paint.

“Now, personally,” he continued a moment later, “I believe that people are inherently good. It’s true that they are often misguided and swayed easily. By politics, by religion... by love, even.”

Harry still did not reply, though Draco clearly intended him to.

Eventually, Draco sighed. “But I think they are, at the end of the day, _good_ ,” he finished. “Know why I think that?”

Harry stared at him, mouth clamped close, stomach clenching uncomfortably. He shook his head.

”Windows,” Draco said, grinning at his own cryptic answer. “Shop windows, specifically. Every time I see a shop window, I think ‘most people are good’.”

“What?” Harry huffed, irritated he had to ask for clarification when the sentence was so clearly and utterly ridiculous.

“Well, all shops have windows,” Draco explained. “Big ones, with things in them. Nice, shiny things that the shop owners are showing off. Yet, they don’t often get smashed... I mean, obviously, it happens, in certain places, when people get desperate or hungry… when people get influenced by other people. The usual. But most of the time? Windows of shops remain intact night after night. People wait until the shop is open and buy things rather than just taking what they need.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed in anger.

“That’s just moronic,” he spat.

“Why?” Draco challenged, a small smile on his face, as though waiting for Harry to shout, begging for the inevitable argument. Harry noticed and tried hard not to give Draco the satisfaction, but his blood boiled and he couldn’t help himself.

“That’s not people being good,” he fumed. “That’s just people being afraid of repercussions and legal action. That’s not the same as being good. Besides, shops regularly have to put up bars and gates, take things out of their windows. Your argument isn’t even based on fact.”

“So I suppose you think that everyone who commits any kind of crime is ‘bad’?” Malfoy shot back, eyebrow high.

“Well, obviously not everyone.” Harry glared, rage coursing through him. “The fact that we are standing here is —“

“Exactly,” Malfoy interrupted. “Just like not everyone who refrains from smashing shop windows is only doing it so they don’t get in trouble. People are inherently good.”

“That is just so... It doesn’t even begin to... Holy fuck, you are infuriating,” Harry grumbled, passing a hand through his hair, briefly closing his eyes and clenching his fists.

Malfoy burst into sudden, genuine laughter.

“Oh thank Merlin,” he said through his chuckles. “You _are_ still in there. I was beginning to worry. Hey, guess what?”

“What?” Harry said through gritted teeth, prepared to punch Malfoy if necessary.

“I like this one. It’s very bright. I’ll go sign those papers with that scary woman who you’ve officially terrified into leaving us alone.”

He left before Harry had a chance to respond. He grimaced and growled into the empty flat, but eventually, he had to just follow Malfoy out.

It was only a year. He would not kill Draco Malfoy in that time.

Probably.


	7. Chapter 7

With Draco safely installed in his flat, Marguerite began helping him with the actually important minutiae of Muggle life. In no time at all, Draco Malfoy had a phone number and a bank card with a PIN. He had a mailing address and managed to apply for NHS without any help. His flat was empty, but he firmly refused assistance with furnishing it.

For the first time in months, Harry was left to his own devices. There was nothing for him to do, no help required, no interviews or court dates to schedule, no evidence to organise. He was instantly at a loss.

Regardless, he had moved fully into Ron and Hermione’s house, and it was almost pleasant; it contained just the barest hint of nostalgia and calmed frayed nerves to have a buffer from the otherwise tense situation. He and Ron started playing chess in the evenings, and he was teaching himself to cook. He did most of the cleaning out of sheer boredom, and he was hesitant but happy, despite having really solved nothing. Acting as an impromptu butler for his two best friends wasn’t the worst way to waste his time and he accepted, if only to fill the chasm created by the end of his reparation visits.

Still, his visits to Draco became something of a highlight to his week, despite the strangeness of their current tenuous connection. It let him take a leisurely journey to the other side of the city, and he used the time to investigate parts of Muggle living that he rarely used himself. He took the tube to Draco’s work, found that he was already much liked by the abrasive and gossipy owner, and had an almost motherly relationship with the store’s manager, who had given him all her old furniture. Harry wasn’t sure how Draco was managing to enjoy this living; working for others who knew nothing of magic, living in a small and hodgepodge filled flat, but against all odds, he seemed to be doing just that.

He would fix Harry tea in his tiny kitchen and update him on things Harry had not asked about. He’d tell about his latest adventure in Muggle cultural discovery, like the time he discovered the humble brilliance of umbrella vendors in the middle of a sudden rainstorm. Draco Malfoy, Pureblood git extraordinaire, was inexplicably tickled pink by London markets, and his flat was starting to fill with china and other small knick-knacks. He’d let Harry ask his Ministry mandated questions, given to him each week by Kingsley, and then he’d spend an hour regaling him with tales of bookshop life, or else plying him with his latest cake creation and making Harry critique it in so much detail that he didn’t want to eat it anymore.

Six months into his probationary period, Draco seemed so normal it almost hurt. He was good at his job and he seemed to enjoy it. He used Muggle phrases like he'd always done it, and he found ways around his lack of magic that startled Harry with their simple brilliance. Draco was smart and resourceful, and utterly resilient.

As spring swung into summer proper, Harry was shocked to discover that he actually liked sitting with Draco and listening to him talk. Whether it was in his small, plant-filled kitchen, wedged between the sunspot and the bamboo tree, or on the tiny stool perched behind the counter at the bookstore, Harry would smile and laugh, quip and participate fully in conversations.

The weird twinge of distrust disappeared before Harry even noticed it was gone.

Luna, truthfully, noticed first, and not in a way that made him feel comfortable or at ease. She danced into Hermione’s house one Saturday in early June and smiled at him broadly.

“Oh good,” she cheered. “You’re in a good mood! Things must be going well with Draco!”

“What?” Harry replied sharply. He didn't know what she was on about. He hadn't seen Draco in almost a week. She was probably just being Luna, but there was a distinct feeling of self-congratulation in her tone that made him uneasy.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” She dismissed him with a wave. “I just told him to relax a bit, be himself. You two were always so focused on getting your hackles up and growling at each other. You didn’t notice that you might actually be friends if you tried.”

Harry smirked. “Not sure we’re friends,” he clarified. “But we’ve found a truce that should get us through this year.”

“Good enough,” Luna replied with a shrug. “Now go put something nice on. We’re going out to meet the others for a drink.”

Harry tried to protest, and immediately realised he didn’t know why. Wasn’t he always bemoaning his loss of carefree fun, yearning for ‘the good old days’?

An hour later, of course, in a black t-shirt that was almost clean and jeans that he mostly fit into, he wanted to crawl back out of the crowded bar and hide under the bed.

“When you said 'drink',” he shouted at Luna, who was twirling beside him, “you could’ve mentioned ‘club’.”

“But then you wouldn’t have come,” Ginny shouted back from behind him, handing him a beer and Luna a complicated orange thing before wrapping herself back around Luna’s waist.

Harry glanced around, trying to find other people he knew; it was difficult. Everything was fuzzy and shimmery even though he’d only had two beers. There was smoke from a smoke machine, bright green and blue pulsing light, the sheen of sweat that floated everywhere. His head was clogged and out of focus, but his eyes kept landing on pieces of skin, bits of moving body.

“You know, you’re right,” he heard Luna shout to Ginny, who was now gyrating lewdly between them.

“I told you,” Ginny shrugged. “He has no preference. It was maddening back when I was convinced that he was cheating. Man gets stares from every bloke, bird, and creature in between.”

Harry’s focus snapped back with uncomfortable clarity. “What!?” he shouted at the girls.

Ginny merely laughed. “Oh relax, Harry. I don’t think you were cheating on me. Not anymore,” she said, patting him on the head patronisingly.

“I meant—the other thing,” he said, too quietly for them to hear him. They had stopped listening, back to spinning and laughing in time to the music. He looked around again.

He tried to find, consciously, this time, where his appreciative gaze had landed; he was only a little bit shocked to find that Ginny was maybe right.

He seemed to get stuck on parts rather than the whole; the curve of a neck leading to a shaved head. The jut of elbows and long arms thrown into the air to help the person dance. The length of a calf that narrowed to a graceful heel. As he did his cursory appraisal of the room, the music changed. In the brief chaos that ensued after the minute pause of a shifting beat, he found he was being watched.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with dirty blonde hair and a tight white t-shirt, dancing and also watching him. For a moment, his brain floundered. And then Ginny, laughing and swaying to the beat, bumped into him by accident and made him step forward. The man’s face shifted suddenly, and even from where he stood, he made Harry smile. He took a long pull of his beer, handed it to Ginny, and with a deep breath, marched himself onto the dance floor.

Once there, everything was easier. It was hard to be self-conscious when he couldn’t see anything but the man that kept pulling him close, grabbing parts of his body that hadn’t been grabbed in a very long time. When he couldn’t hear or be heard without shouting. Short, directly-into-ear statements had told Harry everything he really wanted to know right now. The man was Gabe. He was here alone. He was finished his drink. Harry simply shut off his brain and went with it, and before long, he was grinning and breathless.

He was having fun.

Time was likely passing, based on the shift of the dance floor, pulsing and flowing, sometimes growing more crowded, sometimes thinning out. But Gabe didn’t let him go, so he stayed. He stayed when Ginny brought him another beer and when she came back for another for ‘his new friend’. He stayed, even though he really could’ve used the loo. He stayed when Luna came up to him wearing her coat, her hair twisted up off her neck, and said that she and Ginny were headed out.

“Think I’ll stay,” he shouted to her, with a nervous glance to the tall man grinning beside him.

“Oh, you’re definitely staying,” Luna said, hugging him around the waist. “Have fun.”

He beamed back at her and nodded, but when he turned back to face his dance partner, a flutter of nerves tried it’s best to insert itself into his stomach.

“My friends,” he shouted, trying to explain. “Headed out.”

Gabe grinned, took his hand, and dragged him close, and was suddenly kissing him slowly, torturously, and every nerve ending in his body lit up in a way that was completely new and perfect. He took a deep breath, diving into the kiss with abandon.

“We could too,” he muttered impulsively against the other man’s mouth. “Head out, I mean.”

When he only got a nod in return, Harry realised what he had said and how impossible this was about to be. What was his plan? Take this strange man back to Hermione’s house? Or to the flat he hadn’t set foot in for months? Or was his plan to go wherever this hulking creature lived and… what? Let him ravage him? It was going to become clear very quickly that he had no idea what he was doing in that regard, and Harry’s face flushed suddenly; even though he was in fact currently dragging Gabe by the hand off the dance floor and towards an exit, he had not thought this through. He hardly wanted to keep this guy around indefinitely. Broad shoulders and narrow hips were not indicative of a standing commitment. Did he have it in him for casual sex?

He was not drunk enough for this. He was overthinking everything.

As it turned out, though, he needn’t really have worried; Gabe had an entirely different plan in mind for them both, taking the lead once they were outside in the brisk night and pulling Harry into the space between two buildings less than half a block from the club. Harry figured out the plan right away, tried to be scandalised, appalled, embarrassed even. He came up disastrously short. His whole body just wanted this; it had been too long, too long since Ginny, since his series of weird, short, failed relationships that had never been exactly satisfying for a variety of reasons. He just wanted this. Sex.

Back Alley sex, apparently.

He shut off his thoughts as his current companion produced a pocket full of condoms, and Harry murmured in agreement to a whispered question of consent as he was divested of his trousers and sucked into a warm, willing mouth. He wanted, just wanted, and he would feel bad about it later.

There were moments where he didn’t know what he was doing, like when he messily shifted their positions and ended up with a cock in his mouth for the first time ever, or when a condom was suddenly rolled up his own and he was directed towards a large, ready arse. If he'd had time to hesitate, to reconsider, these moments might have tripped him up.

There were other moments, though, when he knew exactly what was happening; he read whimpers well, he knew laboured breathing and gentle caress. There had been a time when he’d been good at this, and frankly, he was quite enjoying the achingly distinct differences of the beautiful male body in front of him. He wasn’t spending time comparing Gabe to Ginny, waiting for sex to just be uncomfortable or depressing. It never happened.

He came with a laugh on his lips, buried deep in a stranger, and mentally, crossed ‘kiss a boy’ off his list. He left with a tender moment of lovely kissing, and Gabe's number which he honestly wasn't sure he would use. Any description of ‘public sex’ he'd ever considered had not prepared him for the sort of lovely, messy, quick and tangible thing that had just happened. He was happy. Happy and satiated, and he apparated to his bed with no regrets.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry woke early the next day, smiling. It had been a long time since he’d felt uncomplicatedly happy, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to embrace it. Ron and Hermione weren’t around and he didn't actually know where they were. Still, he ran around the house tidying, then made a stew in Hermione’s slow cooker in case they were home for dinner. He ate an orange. By the time 9 am rolled around, he had read the paper and was out of chores. Every mundane task felt significant and meaningful, and he laughed at himself openly in the empty house. Was this all it had taken? Getting laid?

He knew it was more complicated than that, but Saturday nights, they were for fun. And he'd forgotten. Sure, he'd slept with a man, but the more important and lasting impression that he had was that he'd slept with someone and had fun.

It was, unfortunately, a Draco morning. Unfortunate only because he really just wanted to lounge around in the sun and basque in his own feeling of triumph. Maybe go flying later. Still, he hadn't seen Draco in nearly a week at this point since his shift work schedule was hectic and he'd been asking Harry to reschedule since their last meeting. At the appointed time, he gathered up his energy and ran out the door.

He was whistling when he arrived, which was a weird tick he'd picked up sometime during the first year he'd been out of school. Draco seemed to ignore his many knocks, and he got worried that he'd screwed up the time or missed a call that Draco had picked up a shift.

Confusingly, the flat was bustling with noise when Harry finally hesitantly used his ministry provided key to open the door. The smell of bacon assaulted him. Despite being slightly annoyed that he'd been ignored, he also noticed three things all at once; the kitchen was warm and bright, new lights and an open window bringing life to everything. There was loud, happy music, full of upbeat tempo and a raspy voice singing about sunshine. And, finally, that the ginger-haired man standing at the stove was not Draco Malfoy. He was, though, dancing around said kitchen with a spatula in hand, singing loudly, and wearing only boxers and a white button-down hanging open at the collar.

“Er, hi?” Harry called loudly from the door, hesitant to move forward with the stranger mere feet away.

The man whirled around in shock, but his face immediately broke open into a wide, friendly grin.

“Hello,” he boomed, a deep baritone jumping over the music. “You must be Harry. Drew said you might be dropping in. He's just run to the shops… We've run out of eggs.”

“Drew?” Harry replied weakly.

“Ah yes, sorry!” the man said in the same jovial tone. “You probably call him the other name, don't you… What is it again? Something strange. Very unusual. Drayden? Dray something, anyway.”

“ _Draco_ ,” Harry supplied. “Sorry, um... Who are you?”

“Fuck, mate. Sorry. Roger,” Roger replied, extending a hand as he exited the kitchen. “Forgive me, I’m a bit Sunday-brained if I'm honest. We had rather a late one.”

Roger was now winking at Harry; the combination of the large, hairy chest of this very tall ginger man and the continued use of the word ‘we’ had Harry completely lost and frazzled. He felt his cheeks heat uncomfortably as he shook the man’s hand.

“I'll just go. Tell him I'll come tomorrow instead,” Harry muttered.

“Ah, nonsense,” Roger said dismissively. “Plenty of bacon. There’ll be eggs, too, if that infernal man ever stops getting distracted by the vegetable aisle. Never seen anyone so fascinated by aubergines. Ever seen him shop for aubergines? Anyway, coffee or tea?”

Harry opened his mouth to protest staying but instead heard himself mutter ‘coffee’.

“Right up, the kettle is just finishing. Come on through. Grab that paper there would you? You and I can get ahead on the crossword puzzle. Really piss him off, hey?” Roger joked, winking again.

Harry followed him back to the kitchen, grabbing the newspaper off the coffee table as he passed by. By the time he sat at the table, there was a steaming cup of Draco's favourite hazelnut coffee in front of him, served in the wobbly Spitalfields market mug he always used when he was here. He looked at the mug uneasily as Roger turned to throw him a biro.

“Oh sorry, that mug okay? I assumed you'd want that one,” Roger pointed with a laugh. “I'm not normally allowed to use it because it's ‘Harry's’, so I figured giving it to Harry was the right move.”

“Um yeah, thanks,” he said, taking a sip and opening the paper to the puzzle. “Okay, uh… fourteen-line poem? Six letters.”

“Sonnet,” Draco shouted, slamming the door behind him and dropping keys on their hook. “You assholes thought you could start that without me, did you? Hiya, Harry.”

Harry leaned his head back until he could glare at Draco, who smiled infuriatingly and shrugged.

“Hiya?” Harry said irritably.

“Roger, here's the eggs. Can I beg you to make them while Harry and I have our meeting quickly?” Draco asked sweetly. “Then we can all eat together.”

“And do the crossword?” Roger said hopefully. Draco glared but kissed the man on the cheek.

“Harry? Living room?” Draco said nonchalantly.

“Draco,” Harry hissed, throwing up a _Muffliato_ as soon as they were out of the kitchen. Draco smirked.

“Don’t you think that’s going to be a bit obvious?”

“Don’t even start. Explain,” Harry said.

“Huh?” Draco said, eyebrow going up as he studied Harry’s face. “Oh, him? That’s Roger. The boyfriend.”

Harry stared at Draco for a second as a million thoughts raced through his brain. They were hard to sort. He finally landed on the important one.

“Draco,” Harry hissed again. “Are you breaking your —“

“Frig, Potter, still no trust, hey? Thought we’d finally made progress,” Draco sighed with a healthy glare that Harry disliked greatly.

“So… he’s Muggle?” Harry asked, needing to be sure.

“He’s Muggle. And a really great fuck, if that’s your next question. What else do you need to know, oh parole officer?” Draco snarled, crossing his arms. “Want to know how we met or what he does or how often he stays over? Wondering why you haven’t met him yet?”

“I don’t care who you—"

“Oh, _sure_ you don’t,” Draco scoffed. “This reaction is making that seem entirely accurate, that’s for sure.”

Harry sputtered. “I’m not reacting. I was just a little… surprised,” he said lamely.

“Mhmm,” Draco said sceptically. “Are you going to calm down now, then? Is there anything that I’m actually doing that I’m not allowed to do? Dating a Muggle isn’t in my conditions.”

“I—" Harry began. But he couldn’t continue. There really was nothing wrong with Draco dating Roger. “No, nothing is wrong. Sorry.”

“Alright then. You really need to calm down. Do you want breakfast?”

“I was perfectly happy this morning until I encountered your half-naked boyfriend in your kitchen.”

“Oh sure,” Draco smirked. “You were ‘fine’. You're never fine on Sundays. You're always miserable.”

“What?” Harry squinted. “I am not!”

“Whatever. Tell yourself what you want.”

“For your information,” Harry said defensively. “I went out last night.”

Draco smiled at him. “Good. Now listen. Breakfast? Roger is harmless, I promise.”

“I can’t actually be convinced to leave without bacon, at this point,” Harry replied, smiling to try and ease some of the tension he’d created in his own shoulders. Draco nodded and waved at the empty air above them until Harry dropped the ward, then walked back to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee.

The domestic scene that unfolded before Harry over the next hour both warmed his heart and caused him a significant amount of misplaced discomfort. The last time he'd been in a kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning eating breakfast had been with Ginny. They hadn't exactly been crossword puzzle people, but they'd always at the very least start arguing jovially over the Quidditch numbers or over analysing some sort of news story, with Ginny mocking the way he looked in the latest photo. Why was he here on a Sunday morning?

His mood had completely flipped by the time he finished his second cup of coffee. His sex-with-Gabe induced bubble had turned a little sad and melancholy by the time he finally extracted himself.

“Does he still think he’s intruding on our morning?” Roger said with a very disconcerting pout.

“Most likely,” Draco laughed, knocking Harry on the head as they all stood up. “But it’s no use trying to convince him otherwise. Harry Potter is not easily dissuaded from his delusions.”

“Harry Potter,” Roger mused. “Why is that so familiar? Sounds like… someone famous or something.”

Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but Draco made no such effort. “Oh, only in certain circles. He’s far less important than he likes to believe he is.”

“Oh, Drew. _Mean_. Ignore him, Harry,” Roger grinned. “He’s harmless.”

“I have quite a lot of practice ignoring him, Roger, don’t worry.”

“Oi!” Draco yelped.

Harry left laughing and had almost forgotten the sad, poisonous, bilious feeling until he reached the main floor. 

* * *

Draco spent the rest of the morning in a strange, irritated fog. He couldn’t account for Harry’s reaction to Roger and something about it was irking him.

He’d been so careful, finding someone like Roger, who no one could possibly object to because he was too innocuous, too innocent; the man had been flirting awkwardly and timidly with Draco at the shop for over a month before he finally worked up the nerve to ask him out. True, he’d never actually checked with Harry to see if he was allowed to date. Had that been his mistake? Had he breached some sort of unwritten contract? A full body shudder hit him as he contemplated the possibility of going back to Azkaban for the sake of some mediocre-at-best sex. Roger was sweet, caring, but Draco wasn’t sure he was quite worth that.

He looked down at the dishes he was washing, the warm, sudsy water a comfort to him; he had never washed a dish in his entire life until five months ago, and now, it was a lovely, contemplative task. He had changed, he knew he had. It crossed his mind that he should go find Harry right now, immediately apologise, tell him that he wouldn’t see Roger anymore.

Although. When Draco had mentioned it, Harry had mostly seemed taken aback. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. It would hardly be the first time.

He picked up the last mug in the sink and found the wobbled blue stripes. He hadn’t noticed until now.

“Did you give this mug to Harry?” He asked Roger.

“Yeah,” he replied lightly. “Should I not have? I thought that was his mug. Do you know more than one Harry?”

“No, no. It’s fine. I just hadn’t noticed,” Draco said, washing out the cup and handing it to Roger to dry.

“You okay?” he asked carefully. “You seem… far away. Everything go okay with your meeting?”

“I… yeah, I guess so. I don’t like the meetings. Sometimes they throw me off.”

“Harry seemed almost angry when he sat back down. Did you argue?” Roger asked. “I mean, I don’t know him, obviously. Never mind. Ignore me.”

“I don’t think we argued, but I dunno. I don’t know him that well either,” Draco shrugged.

Roger nodded and put the mug back on the shelf behind him. “If I ask you a question, and it goes too far, will you tell me?”

Draco braced himself; it had always been coming, the explanation of why he had to meet with Harry every week. It was inevitable that the person he was dating was going to notice, have some questions, but he wasn’t ready for it today, not when he was only half convinced he was going to be able to continue dating said person.

Especially when he couldn’t exactly Obliviate him later if it became necessary.

Still, he nodded, hands still buried in the suds and not meeting Roger’s eyes.

“Is it drugs? Were you an… an addict or something? It’s just—” Roger hesitated. “You have all those scars. And you’re so thin. I mean, you are also gorgeous, I’ve noticed, don’t worry. But…”

Draco considered for a moment; drugs would actually be a comforting out, if he was honest. Harry was his sponsor. He’d only been clean a short while. The story wove itself into a tangible thing in his head as he considered. He’d been reading so much lately, often all night long, trying to shove facts and stories and an entire universe of information he’d always craved into his head. The story would become believable very quickly with just a few well-placed details.

“Never mind, you don’t owe me that story,” Roger said hastily, misreading Draco’s hesitation. “Sorry, forget I asked.”

He stared at the wall for a moment longer.

One night, about a month into his imprisonment, he’d woken from a startlingly realistic dream in which the war had not actually ended; instead, he sat at the right hand of Voldemort, not free but shackled by the ankle, fed an endless string of truth serum and lies about Muggles, forced to perform Occlumency on children to find their parents, forced to hold Nagini in his lap for hours whenever she pleased. He hadn’t had enough water in three days, so he wasn’t actually sweating when he awoke, but the shivering painful pricks of where the sweat should have been had made him throw up.

He’d made himself a promise, right then. He would never again be forced to lie or tell the truth. He would never again be forced to do anything against his will, in fact. Standing now, in a kitchen that looked like it belonged to him, even if it didn’t, in a sunlit afternoon, alive and fed and comfortable, he didn’t feel like lying.

So he didn’t.

“It wasn’t drugs,” he said finally, taking the towel from Roger to dry his hands. “It was… complicated.”

He sat down at the table and when Roger followed him, he put the towel down. “You know how I told you my given name was sort of like… a family heirloom?”

Roger nodded.

“Well,” he continued. “My father… he was, um, pretty important in this thing that was... I guess it was kind of a cult? And there were some really shitty choices made by their followers. I—” He hesitated. He honestly wasn’t sure how this was going to go. He forced himself to continue only by realising that even if he didn’t, Roger was always going to be wondering. He’d never really gain his trust, and that definitely wasn’t a better solution.

“I did some of the things,” he continued. “By the time we all… got out, of the cult I mean,” he exhaled. “I had done some illegal things. I went to jail.”

“Oh,” Roger breathed, eyes gone wide.

“Yeah. Well. I mean,” Draco faltered. “I never… directly… hurt anyone. But. Fuck, sorry. This is—I’ve never said any of this out loud.”

“You don’t have to keep going?” Roger said hesitantly.

“I can’t actually go into detail,” Draco apologised. “But Harry is my like my... watcher, I guess? To make sure I stay away from the people in my old life. I’m on a conditional release.”

“Like a parole officer?” Roger asked calmly, fiddling with his hands in front of him.

“Yeah, that’s it. Couldn’t remember the word.” Draco reached out and gently touched Roger’s hands. “It’s okay. If this is too much, it’s okay.”

Roger considered him for a moment and shrugged. He stood up and started pacing.

“I like Harry,” he said eventually.

“Everyone likes Harry,” Draco mumbled.

Roger chuffed. “Relax. God, you’re a jealous one, hey? Good to know.”

Draco smiled. “It’s complicated, between he and I. We aren’t—Sorry, not the point.”

“I just meant, I like him and he seems to trust you. He seemed to feel perfectly fine sitting in your kitchen for brunch,” Roger explained.

“So?” Draco questioned. What did Harry eating around him prove?

“Well,” Roger exhaled. “I mean, he doesn’t _have_ to be comfortable around you, does he? That’s not his job. But he is. He has his own cup in your house, for goodness sake.” Roger laughed. “I think I’m fine with a sordid past. Promise me you’ll tell me if things get… hard? Or dangerous? Or whatever.”

Draco couldn’t believe his ears. He was filled with a flush of warmth and gratitude. For easy-going Roger. For his inherited sense of calm.

For Potter and his attempt to build a trust with Draco that he had truly never earned.

His skin prickled where Roger was holding his hand, and he had to look away to calm his blush. He wasn’t used to this; forgiveness and earned respect, choice and trust. They were foreign. He wasn’t ready.

“Hey,” Roger said suddenly. “We should go out. Park or something. It’s nice out there. I’ll go put clothes on.”

Draco smiled a weak, wobbly smile. “If you must,” he concluded, the bad joke being received with a warm grin and a gentle peck on the cheek.


	9. Chapter 9

The doorbell at Hermione’s shocked him slightly; it was just because he’d never heard the old-fashioned sound, that was all. It had nothing to do with the fact he finally had the house to himself for the first time all week, with both Hermione and Ron at work. Nothing at all to do with the fact that he had just settled down to… _relax_ , as it were.

Nonetheless, he groaned and stood up quickly. The faster he got rid of whoever it was the better. It occurred to him as he approached the door the reason he had never heard the doorbell was that Hermione very likely had it warded against salesmen and the like.

He swung the door open, fully anticipating someone from the Ministry to be searching for Hermione. Or else one of the Weasleys, looking for Ron. What he found instead was a panic-stricken Draco Malfoy, who should not have been able to approach the door at all, but who pushed his way in the second there was a space wide enough for him.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco huffed, throwing the large cardboard box in his arms to the ground. “I was convinced all the way here that you weren’t going to be in, and that I’d have taken the tube for no bloody reason. Do you know how much I hate the tube? It’s horrible. Well, except that it’s better than the bus.”

“Draco?” Harry questioned patiently. He didn’t remember telling Draco where he lived, but if he was here now, there was likely a good reason.

“I need help,” Draco said, gesturing at the box. “Roger appeared with that last night and said he wanted to have some friends around for a _games_ night this weekend. I can’t have a games night with these!”

Harry looked at Draco, then at the box, before bursting into hysterical laughter. Draco sighed and shifted the box closer to Harry with his foot, jostling the contents and making them jingle with the sound of many small, Muggle parts.

“Look at them!” Draco cried. “I’ve never seen any of these in my life!”

“Well, what were you expecting?” Harry laughed. “Exploding Snap?”

“Harry, shut up!” Draco scolded. “This isn’t funny! He already thinks I’m strange. I can’t let him see that I’ve never even played a game before. They’re all ancient! They’re clearly all his favourites.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said, kneeling to examine the box. “ _Monopoly_ and _Operation_ are sort of staples in the boardgame world, Draco.”

“Oh shut up, Mr ‘I was raised with Muggles’,” Draco mocked. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Just for the record, by ‘help you’, you mean ‘teach you how to play Muggle children’s games’?” Harry clarified.

Draco ground his teeth and Harry laughed as he stooped to pick up the box.

“Come through, you disastrous human, you,” Harry teased. “I can hardly have the past six months of my life wasted. The last thing I need is your Muggle boyfriend pushing you into doing accidental magic out of sheer anger because you’re losing. Boots, though,” he added, gesturing to Draco’s feet. “Hermione hates shoes inside.”

An hour later, when the front door opened and Hermione called out, the two of them were sitting cross-legged and sock-footed, laughing over a game of two-person Cluedo. It was both hilarious and absolutely no fun at all.

“Why would anyone use a candlestick to kill someone?” Draco asked incredulously, picking up the tiny metal piece. “I mean, I guess it’s heavy but—“

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply from the doorway as she surveyed the living room scene with moderately concealed discomfort. “Company?”

Harry braced himself and shrugged. “He didn’t know how to play some of the games his boyfriend has.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Harry waited. Draco looked at the game board. If a situation could ever have created enough physical tension that one could gather into a sack and use as it as a pillow, this was it. Harry hadn’t let a breath out since he’d stopped speaking, and Draco’s foot was shaking hard enough that it was moving the coffee table. Hermione stared at Draco’s head and Harry could practically hear her calculating her options.

“Well,” she whispered eventually, worrying her hands together and gulping audibly. “Cluedo is no fun with only two people. Let me change and call Luna and Ginny. We can all play.”

Harry gaped at her, unable to hide his shock. Draco studied her for a moment, eventually nodding with a small smile that was not returned. She turned on her heel and left the room, and Harry and Draco didn’t speak for the several minutes she was gone; when she returned, she held a bag of crisps, a bottle of wine, and five glasses.

“The girls will be here in ten,” she said, settling onto her knees at a third side of the table. “But Ron’s working tonight.”

She moved the board over to put the food down and began to gather up all the cards and the tiny envelope while Harry and Draco awkwardly watched. Eventually, Draco cleared his throat.

“For what it’s worth,” he began, but Hermione shook her head and cut him off.

“I’ve talked to Luna. I know what you did. I don’t need another friend, Draco,” she said firmly. “But I do know that Harry _does_. We’re moving on.”

In the stony silence that fell after her, a _bing_ emitted from the kitchen.

“Cheese dip,” she explained, standing again and exiting the room.

Draco stared at Harry, whose mouth had fallen open.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asked.

“She forgave me, I think,” Draco said quietly, breaking his gaze and playing with his fingers for a moment. “I—“

He stopped speaking for a moment, and when he looked back up, his signature mask of indifference had broken in two; emotion was on every part of his face.

“Excuse me,” he said, standing and leaving the room quickly.

“Seriously though,” Harry said to the empty room, finishing the resetting of the game board. “What happened?”

* * *

What followed was one of the most bizarre nights of Draco’s entire life. And he’d lived with _Voldemort_ for almost a year.

Ginny and Luna showed up almost exactly ten minutes later, and Luna squealed with a sound Draco had never heard any human make, before engulfing him in a very out-of-character, bone-crushing hug. Ginny regarded him coldly and folded her arms.

“Ferret,” she stated.

“Weaslette,” he returned. Luna watched them both carefully and then broke out into the giggles. Before long, Ginny lost her cold exterior and was laughing right along.

“Sorry,” she said, grinning. “Couldn’t resist. You saved Luna during the war. I know all about it. I forgive those who save the lives of my girlfriends.”

“Girlfriend _s_?” Luna pouted.

“All eight of them,” Ginny smiled at her, nuzzling her head into Luna’s hair for a moment.

With no more fanfare, they settled into a very ridiculous game of Cluedo; Hermione, he quickly learned, was a cheater. This drove Ginny insane, and also made her retaliate as often as possible. Meanwhile, Luna and Harry developed a very obvious system for giving each other extra hints, and Draco was relegated to mostly watching this family-like system play out before him. They obviously all knew what the others were doing, and they ignored it. Draco won, a tidy, smart victory that was met with boos and flung crackers, and he was baffled.

They played various games, well into the night. His favourite by far was Operation. It was completely pointless,  yet somehow very addictive, and he was completely terrible at it.

The entire night was pleasant and jovial, and if he stopped focusing on it, he could nearly forget that he was sitting around a table full of people he had once regarded with utter disdain. They seemed to be ignoring that fact, so he tried to as well.

When they finally called it quits, Draco was content; full, a little drunk. Abundant in mirth.

“I should go,” he said suddenly into a quiet room. “I’ll already be on the night bus.”

“Harry’ll Side-Along you, won’t you Hare?” Hermione said with a yawn.

Harry jolted awake again and nodded. His hair was messier than usual and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

“It’s okay, really,” Draco argued. “I can get there fine.”

“Don’t be stupid, Draco,” Harry insisted, standing and brushing crumbs off his shirt. “It’ll take five minutes. Gotta go to the street though. Come on.”

He lifted the box of games and hugged Ginny and Luna over their shoulders, before jerking his head for Draco to follow.

“Um,” Draco said quietly. “Thanks. For this. It was very helpful.”

“Of course,” Luna said warmly.

“Anytime,” Hermione added, terse but polite.

He still felt on edge near her, but she was trying. He could try too. He nodded and followed Harry out. Halfway down the path, Harry extended a hand. Draco hesitated, but then he took it, and memories flashed through his mind. He ignored them in favour of focusing on the warm, dry, weight of Harry’s palm pressed to his. He breathed deeply; Side-Along Apparition was much less miserable if you focused on the person taking you.

So he watched Harry as he checked the street; he hadn’t noticed before that Potter was still a little too skinny for his frame. He was still shorter than Draco — who’d always hated how tall he was if he was honest — but not by much, and his wire-framed glasses were new. Only Harry Potter would buy new glasses and get the same dorky frames. Draco was secretly pleased, in a deep dark place he didn’t recognise fully. He didn’t know if he could handle the change of Potter in stylish glasses. It was bad enough that at some point, he’d found some clothes that fit. His shirt, on this night where he hadn’t been expecting visitors, was an off-white button-up that hung loose, the first two buttons open. It revealed just enough of his deeply olive skin, and the collar clung gently to the curls at the base of his neck.

Draco noticed.

Right before he spun into darkness, Draco noticed that Harry was actually quite beautiful.

“Thanks for this,” he said when he had found his footing after a rather shaky landing. “Goodnight.”

Harry looked taken aback for a moment, then seemed to realise there was no need for further interaction and nodded quickly.

“Yeah, no problem,” he answered, rubbing his neck and extending the box of games. “Good luck with Roger.”

“Yeah,” Draco laughed. “You could come to game night? If you wanted, I mean. I think it’s just a few of his friends. You—” Draco stopped abruptly. “Anyway. You can.”

“Maybe,” Harry said with a small smile. “Might have a date.”

Draco looked at him carefully, trying to find the jest in his voice.

“No, I really might,” Harry insisted. “I just haven’t exactly…called him back?”

Draco laughed. “I hear that’s a good first step.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned. “So no quip about dating blokes?”

“Well, that’s hardly a stone I would be throwing, is it now?” Draco teased. “Besides, I think half the school had their suspicions.”

“Fuck off, they did not,” Harry said with a laugh that transformed his face. He seemed almost relieved, and Draco tried to ignore the leap of glee. He’d been worried, apparently, about telling Draco.

“So is it _only_ blokes?” Draco asked calmly.

“Not sure yet,” Harry replied with a shrug.

“Call him back,” Draco insisted.

“‘K,” Harry said sheepishly.

Draco turned and walked up to his building, wondering where the little jolt of jealousy belonged. It certainly wasn’t inside his chest, where it was currently attempting to settle.


	10. Chapter 10

When Harry got home, he was elated. He’d told someone, properly, about the dating blokes thing, and it hadn’t gone badly. He hadn’t actually meant to tell Draco first, but he reasoned that technically, both Ginny and Luna knew.

He weighed the options before him as he leapt up the front path; did he want to go out with Gabe, who had called him two days post alley-fuck with the offer of dinner? Or did he want to spend the evening with Draco and his boyfriend, playing board games? He knew what the answer was, he just wasn’t sure _why_. Games night with a former childhood rival should not hold more appeal than an evening that would definitely lead to sex.

He was still musing this reality to himself when he looked up and found Hermione waiting expectantly in the living room; it took him even longer to notice a scarlet-robed Ron and an exhausted-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Harry,” Ron said gruffly.

“What’s going on?” Harry demanded, unsettled even without details because that was what Ministry robes were meant to accomplish; he immediately knew that his evening was going to take a turn he wasn’t going to enjoy.

“We have news,” Ron replied, gesturing to the sofa.

“I’m making coffee,” Hermione interjected, bustling past Harry to the kitchen. Harry sat heavily, the sense of foreboding making him clumsy and careless.

“Relax, mate,” Ron implored. His expression, however, was full Auror; all business, with a grim seriousness that did not put Harry at ease.

“Just tell me what’s going on, and I’ll decide if I want to relax,” Harry grunted.

“It’s about Draco,” Kingsley intoned, grave and heavy. Harry’s stomach dropped unpleasantly; he raced through his interactions with Draco over the past week. As far as Harry knew, he hadn’t broken any of the rules. No magic, no contact with anyone from school. He didn’t think that Luna would be creating this reaction in the Minister, even if they _had_ discovered the letters. He looked between Ron and Kingsley as he searched for an answer.

“Lucius Malfoy is dead,” Kingsley explained. Harry nearly sagged with relief.

“Oh,” he said eventually, realising they were going to need a reaction. “Well, then.”

Kingsley looked at Ron, and back at Harry. He cleared his throat and shuffled uncomfortably.

“What happened?” he asked Kingsley. “How’d he...you know…”

“It seems that he was ill,” Kingsley sighed. “The loss of the Dementors at Azkaban has had consequences we did not predict.”

“I’ve heard this speech before, Kingsley,” Harry interjected gruffly. “So he was sick and he died?”

“Not exactly,” Ron stated grimly. “He was sick, and so the guards pulled him from his cell. And he attacked them. But he was pretty weak. They… well, he didn’t make it.”

“So they killed him,” Harry inferred, emotionless. It was hardly a sad thing, the end of Lucius Malfoy. He had a hard time finding redeeming qualities in the man; the irony was not lost on him since somehow, he’d found a way to stop hating his son. He’d figure that one out later.

“Yes,” Kingsley confirmed. ”We just thought you should know so that when we told Malfoy, you would be able to observe any changes in his behaviour.”

“Observe any _changes_ ,” Harry replied scathingly. “Like he’s an angry dog?”

“Harry,” Ron said, his voice full of Auror warning. Harry was having none of it.

“Don’t even start with me, Ron,” he interrupted. “You will not be telling Draco anything.”

Kingsley stepped forward, a classic move taught in basic training that was meant to release tension in a room; it set Harry’s teeth on edge.

“Okay,” he reasoned, a hand stretched out toward Harry in a placating gesture. “Do you want us to send someone else? A healer or —”

“No, I should tell him,” Harry interrupted in a rush before he realised what he was saying; did that sentence even make sense? _Should_ he? Why did it matter if he was the one to tell Draco? Harry cleared his throat. “He should hear it from someone he…”

“Trusts,” Hermione finished, bringing a tray of coffee. That was as close to a reason as Harry was going to be able to find, so he nodded.

“What did I tell you?” Ron hissed at Kingsley. “Now do you believe me? It’s like Malfoy is his little pet project. Will you please pull him? It’s starting to feel suspiciously like Stockholm.”

“Ronald Weasley,” Hermione hissed. “You’ll keep a civil tongue. Harry has a right to—”

“To what!” Ron interrupted, anger booming around the room. “Interfere with everyone’s lives? To save every bloody evil git he's ever felt guilty about? Why is it _his_ right to tell other people how to live their lives! Because he ‘saved us all’? Forgive me if that’s not what I signed up for.”

“Is that what you think he’s been doing?” Hermione asked quietly. “Is that what you think every time you hit him in a drunken rumble?”

Ron’s face went bright red and Kingsley’s normally masked, mild eyes opened wide before he schooled himself back into professional indifference. Harry took pity on him and cleared his throat.

“Minister, I would like to tell Mr Malfoy about this change in his family,” he said formally, as though the council was here and could interrupt him. “I have built a positive rapport with him. I feel the news will be—better handled if it came from a familiar person.”

“Very well,” Kingsley said gruffly. “I will leave you. Auror Weasley, please consider our earlier conversation carefully. Good evening.”

Kingsley stepped to the floo, pulling powder from the pot in front of him and leaving the room with a flash of brilliant green flame. The flaring light highlighted the misery that surrounded all of them; Harry was fuming, angry at Ron. At Draco and Kingsley and Lucius Malfoy. At himself, for relaxing in happy contentment for five minutes as though he was allowed to do that without it all blowing up in his face. Ron, in turn, was angry at Hermione and Fred and the war, and by extension, at Malfoy and Kingsley. Hopefully, he was angry at himself too, though Harry had his doubts. Hermione was just sad. Hermione had been sad for so long that he forgot what her face looked like without the tinge of disappointment and bracing-for-a-storm stance in all her movements; he swore even the curl of her hair had changed. It was less lion-like, less untamed. It hung in unassuming tendrils around her face instead, as though trying it’s best not to be a bother.

“What was he talking about, Ronald?” she murmured once the flames had died back down.

“Never mind,” Ron fumed. “I’m going out.”

“Well, of course, you are,” Hermione sighed, rubbing her face.

“Excuse me?” Ron hissed. Harry stepped toward him and held up a hand.

“Go if you’re going, but perhaps remove your work robes first?” he said calmly. Ron’s face flashed fury, but he nodded shortly, pulled his robes over his head and tossed them on the sofa. He strode from the room before saying another word.

For most of that night, Harry sat with Hermione curled into his side, drinking cup after cup of coffee as she alternated between sobbing and sleeping.

* * *

A roaring, pounding knock woke Harry up from a weird nap that he hadn't been enjoying. The next day had shifted onto them without warning and the jolt left him groggy. The front door, however, left him even more shocked.

"I believe _this_ ," Draco snapped. "Belongs to you."

He had Ron propped up under his arm, and it appeared that he was in very fine form indeed.

"What—why—" Harry floundered.

"He turned up at my door to…” Draco hesitated. “Actually, I don't know why he turned up at my door but I've brought him back. And now I'm leaving. So, if you wouldn't mind. He's not exactly made of feathers."

That Harry knew for a fact. He'd carried Ron up these steps numerous times. He drew his wand and cast a quick levitation, setting Ron down just inside the door. Draco exhaled with a huff the second he was free of his burden.

"Right. Bye, then," he said briskly, turning and striding away.

"Wait!" Harry called, clamouring for an apology. "I'm sorry... He's just—"

"You know what," Draco snapped. "Just save it okay? I really don't fucking care."

He kept walking, and Harry sighed. The anger was probably partly justified, but he was pretty sure Draco was laying it on a little thick. The weight of the information Harry needed to give him sat in a lump inside his stomach; it wasn’t fair, but he wanted to keep it to himself a little while longer. He was sure that if Draco found out, at this moment—already angry at Harry and Ron, and possibly remembering why they had never been friends—he would not be forgiven again.

"Draco,” he called out. “I've said I'm sorry you had to make the trip... Wait, how exactly _did_ you get him here?"

"Motorbike," Draco returned impatiently from the path, as though a Pureblood driving a Muggle motorbike to Harry Potter’s house was an everyday occurrence. "Roger's. Getting my own soon."

Harry's brain temporarily short-circuited as it cleared enough to fully see Draco. Draco, in leathers, holding a helmet beneath one arm, hair mussed and sunglasses hung messily through his t-shirt collar. He looked so very normal. _Not to mention beautiful_ , his brain attempted to add. He blinked at Draco and looked down to the street, scanning the cars parked there. Draco fiddled with the helmet and waited, glancing up at Harry as though waiting for something.

"M-motorbike," he stammered. "You drive a motorbike now?"

"Sometimes," Draco drawled. "And sometimes I take the tube. What’s your point?”

"You brought Ron _here_. On a _motorbike_?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. "But... how?"

"Very carefully," Draco jeered, finishing his flight down the steps and putting his sunglasses back on. The helmet was next and Harry suddenly had a desperate need to see the full effect.

His body compelled him to race down the steps after Draco, screeching to a halt in front of what appeared to be a small, trendy motorbike. Not quite sure how he was supposed to respond to the sight, he turned to tease Draco and make some ridiculous comment that he would later regret, but he found Draco glaring at him with a vitriol and anger that he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

"Wait," Harry clamoured. "I don’t understand what's wrong, here? He is definitely a pain in the ass, and I’m sorry he landed with you."

"Just leave it, Potter," Draco growled, managing to sting Harry a little bit. He didn’t know when that had started; the sharp jolt of sadness when he heard his last name instead of a posh, clipped ‘Harry’. He pushed away from the sad, forced annoyance into his tone instead.

"Seriously, what is it? I've apologised,” he stated simply. “I'll make Ron apologise too but—"

"Oh my God, you really are fucking clueless," Draco snarled, pulling his helmet off again. "Listen. Did it, at any point, for even one _second_ occur to you that I might not want every one of my former school _chums_ to know where I'm living? Alone? _Without magic_? We're both just lucky that Weasley was too drunk to do much of anything by the time he pounded on my door this afternoon. But ta, _ever_ so much for that, Harry."

Harry gaped at him for a moment before managing to speak. He cleared his throat and stuck his hands in his pockets, studying the ground.

"I didn't," he muttered finally. “No one knows. I don't tell him. It's... It's classified, where you work, where you're living. All of it."

Draco studied him carefully for a moment. "Well, how do you explain —"

"He's an Auror. He..." Harry stopped abruptly. He couldn't, not even to calm down this idiot whose opinion he apparently cared about now, not even to save himself the trouble of a tiff. He couldn't say it out loud.

After realising that Harry wasn’t going to continue, Draco nodded tersely and put his helmet back on. "Well, fuck," he concluded bluntly, dropping the visor and starting his engine.

Harry had no choice but to step back, watch him drive away, and then wonder what in the actual hell had just happened to him.

* * *

 It took Harry until late in the evening that day to sleep enough of his foggy, overtired exhaustion off to realise, and then panic, because he hadn’t told Draco about his father’s death. He knew he wasn’t welcome at the flat,  but he knocked with a quick efficiency, forcing himself to play Auror for just a minute. He ignored Draco’s clipped greeting and did not move when he was invited inside; they both knew something was wrong, and there was no point delaying the inevitable. The expression that took over Draco's face as Harry relayed the story wasn't sadness or anger or shock. Instead, it was just blank, impassive, acceptance.

It was deeply disturbing.

It was the face of a Malfoy he no longer knew, one he barely recognized. One he didn't like. He wanted _Draco_ back, the one with strangely earnest and strongly held convictions. The one fascinated by the Muggle markets but who hated the tube. The one who’d sat sock-footed at the coffee table of people he’d never before been kind to, with his tongue between his teeth as he tried to remove a tiny plastic wishbone from a fake surgery patient.

Harry needed to know before he walked away that that person was still in there, somewhere.

When he started talking his brain was still cataloguing tiny pieces of information, like the fact that Draco had come to Harry unsolicited for help. Or that Harry looked forward to his weekly meetings, to Draco's tea and stories. Or that he would have defended him far and wide had Kingsley’s news contained an alleged transgression. All these things added up to a fact that he hadn't been prepared for; in small, measurable minutes, hours, days, and seconds, he had started to see Draco as a person. A person he admired.

A person he liked.

When his mouth and brain met in the middle of his sentence, Harry was mortified to find that he seemed to be talking about Lucius Malfoy with a fond and wistful smile plastered on his face.

"Once, when you were ten, your tutor told you about kites," he was saying to Draco, whose face still had not reacted to the news. "You got obsessed. You begged and begged your mother to buy you one, but she didn't think it was necessary. And then one day, your father came home with a giant, ridiculously extravagant kite and spent all night trying to put it together. The next day, he tried to learn how to fly it in the garden with you, and you both got so frustrated until—"

“I made the kite sprout wings and fly by itself," Draco concluded sadly. The emotion sent a jolt of something through Harry. Reactions, of any sort, were welcome after the stony indifference of the past several minutes.

“My favourite bit of accidental magic ever, to be honest,” Draco finished, heedless of the fact that Harry was very quickly becoming distraught.

"I liked that story,” Harry agreed.

"Don't remember telling you that one," Draco admitted.

They stood in silence again for a moment, crowded in Draco’s cramped corridor, it’s strange corridor-like smells and worn burgundy carpet a terrible backdrop for life-altering information and shifting comforts.

"Thank you for telling me,” Draco said softly. Harry had to fight the sudden urge to hug him. That would not be normal, nor welcome. He had never before felt the need to touch Malfoy in any way, except perhaps to make contact between fist and face. He really needed to get out of this building. The stuffy air of the corridor and stairs was suffocating; he was quickly approaching sheer panic as the realisation hit him all at once. A most inconvenient time.

“It... It's better than Kingsley having come,” he replied, his voice having gone quiet and unsure.

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “I'm just going to need a few days before they ask me to…well, maybe I don’t have to do anything actually, do I? I didn't prepare for magical exile when they taught me how to deal with Succession of Heirs."

The statement was regal and full of words that Harry had never strung together before; he was reminded, firmly and insistently, that he and Draco were not the same.

“It’s not exile,” Harry insisted meaninglessly.

“Well, it certainly isn’t _not_ exile,” Draco huffed, leaning on the door jamb in an exhausted sag that didn’t suit his body. “It doesn’t matter, really. I don’t want any of it. Well…except maybe the cabin. Listen, can we just stop this? I need to think. I don’t even… I don’t have a plan.”

“I know, I’m so sorry,” Harry said sincerely as sad anger hid quickly behind Draco’s tired eyes, unreadable, cold, and distant.

“Will you let me know if you hear anything?” he added eventually.

"Of course," Harry breathed.

"Can I ask a favour?" Draco asked cautiously.

"Yes?” Harry replied, his stomach doing a curious little flip.

“Only, I can't go see her... I can't go check on my mother,” Draco heaved. “Make sure she…”

“I'll go. Today,” Harry said at once.

Draco stood upright again and eyed Harry steadily. “You don't have to,” he added. “I know you and my family—”

“I’ll go,” Harry repeated. “I can go right now.”

“Thank you,” Draco said with a nod, stepping back into his flat and effectively dismissing Harry.

“Are you going to be alright?” Harry asked, hating the whining care that was evident in his voice. Draco nodded curtly and closed the door.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco kept it together for the next couple of days; he managed his closing shift the day after by being bright and bubbly with customers, drinking way too much coffee, and cleaning the small shop to a pristine shine that it likely hadn't seen since it's opening in 1976.

Keeping himself busy worked at first; he was able to ignore the fact that his father was dead because he hadn't seen him in nearly three years. He managed to survive the reality that his mother was dealing with it all alone by remembering that she thought he was still in Azkaban. At least she wouldn't believe he was abandoning her. All told, Draco was handling the death of his father admirably.

Until Roger arrived.

He showed up in his usual hurricane of chipper joviality, but the second he said "hello, darling" with a kiss and a whistle, Draco fell apart. He knew it should have turned into a sappy rom-com; he would say ‘my dad died' and Roger would bundle him into his arms so he could cry for hours while soothing music played in the background of the montage.

Instead, Draco murmured, "My father has passed away" in the middle of a funny anecdote from Roger’s day, and the silence that hit him in the chest was the appropriate reaction. The expected cooing and cuddling, however, were not. Roger's hug hurt every one of his muscles; his closeness made Draco want to scream. Finally, he pulled himself back with force and held up a hand when Roger protested.

"I need you to go," he said calmly. "I just… need you to leave."

Roger argued some more, trying to tell Draco he'd just sit quietly and let Draco be, he shouldn't be alone. Etcetera and etcetera. He was, after all, an incredibly decent man. And that was just the problem.

"Listen, I have been reminded that you barely know me," he finally shouted, interrupting the diatribe. "I need a bit of time to sort out what that means."

Finally, Roger nodded. The gesture was clipped and unforgiving, given his character, and Draco was distantly aware that it maybe should have been more painful. He was barely surprised by the fact that it wasn’t. He had probably known for days that he was done with Roger. The expiration date had been there all along, really. He was Draco Malfoy, dating a Muggle; whatever else he knew, he had known that it wouldn't go on for long.

With the flat silent again, undisturbed by anyone interrupting his heavy brooding, his former self took over; his Malfoy brain started beating him to a pulp. By the time midnight rolled around, he was numb from too many tears and too much time spent in a near panic. He was exhausted; as the night worn on, he broke down inch by inch; he needed someone to hear him, to explain to him why he existed. For hours he’d just sat on the sofa, staring at the middle distance with one question running through his head.

_What do I do now?_

It wasn't a question with an answer, and Draco hated those. More importantly, there was no one else he could even ask.

Or at least.

There was no one he _should_ ask, but at one-twenty in the morning, alone and with no sleep in sight, he finally caved. Potter answered on the second ring, shocking Draco with a hoarse ‘'lo?'

He didn't answer right away.

"Draco?" Potter asked, voice more awake now. He was alarmed. Draco hated himself a little more for having picked up the phone. It was too late now, though. He’d woken him up already, so he cleared his throat and asked his question.

"Do you think he blamed me?" he murmured.

"Who?” Potter asked groggily.

“Draco are you alright?"

"My father," he continued. "Do you think he blamed me for the loss? In the war?"

He could hear Harry try to stifle a yawn. Or perhaps it was a sigh. Draco couldn't tell, and he didn’t really want clarification.

"If he did, does it change anything?" Harry asked. It was exactly the right answer and he hated Potter a tiny bit for giving it.

"No, not in the way you're implying. He had gone too far. I wouldn't have done anything differently," Draco snapped.

"She's alright, Draco. Your mother," Harry added hesitantly. "I didn't call because I wasn't sure you wanted to know yet. She's okay. She was confused about why I was there, but she seems…solid. Healthier than before. I didn’t tell her you were… you know, out here.”

Draco inhaled a shaky breath. For a long minute, the line sat dead, neither knowing how to proceed.

"Harry, can you come over?" he said, wincing at his desperation.

He just needed someone to talk to, someone who had a hope of understanding. Someone he didn't have to lie to. He distantly thought he heard Harry agree and hang up, but he was lost in his head and he didn’t put the phone down for another five minutes. Draco was far, far away; sat on the kitchen floor of his flat, his head was actually at Malfoy Manor, remembering a conversation he’d forgotten a long time ago. He remembered because he had been sitting on the floor then, too, listening to his mother and father argue.

 _I've told you before, he's destined for great things,_ his father was saying. Draco knew, even then, that Lucius wasn't referring to his son.

 _Well, I am glad you are so sure because all I've seen is how much your little obsession is destroying our family._ His mother was angrier than he'd ever heard her before, and Draco cowered closer to the nook beside the hearth in which he was hiding. _Have you seen Draco since the meetings started? He's quit playing the piano again, but you wouldn't know that would you?_

 _This is bigger than him. Bigger than us._ His father insisted. He said it over and over again, like a very contorted mantra. His mother had finally stopped listening and slammed the parlour door.

Draco was dragged back from his memory by a gentle knock. He cleared his throat and shouted ‘open', without moving from the tile. His limbs didn’t quite feel like they would carry him right now. The piece of paper in his hands was already wrinkled and torn from where he'd been worrying it for hours.

Harry, when he appeared in the doorway, was wearing red polka-dotted sleepers and a worn, holey grey t-shirt. His hair was a disaster, but in that ‘I've been asleep' way that everyone got at two in the morning instead of just its normal disaster. He didn't have his glasses on.

"Did you Apparate from your flat?" Draco asked, his voice flat and weary. "Sorry, I—I don't know why I called."

"Don't worry," Harry replied with a wave of his hand. "It's what I'm here for."

"Right," Draco said tersely. "Parole officer."

Harry paused in his striding toward Draco, sighing and rolling his eyes. "Not what I meant," he replied. "You okay?"

Draco just looked at him.

"I mean, obviously not _okay_ , but…" Harry clarified uncomfortably, standing over Draco now. He was embarrassed and awkward for a moment before a Gryffindor determination seemed to wash over him and he sat heavily beside Draco on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and leaning on the cupboard behind him.

Draco extended his list to Harry, who took it with a lifted brow.

"The thing is," Draco began, "I love the charity shop."

Harry looked at him, back at the list, and wisely said nothing. Draco knew how crazy he sounded; he had been sounding this crazy—even to himself—for hours now, ever since he'd asked Roger to leave and started scribbling on the back of his electric bill.

"I mean it,” he insisted. “I love them. They're stupid and they smell weird, and I like finding strange things in them."

"Okay…"

"And toasters," he added. "I love toasters. They're so predictable in their toast making. Not to mention the bookshop. And _Operation_."

"Draco...?" Harry tried to interject.

Draco shook his head and he shut his mouth. "I like making my own money, and having friends that don't give a flying fuck about my last name," he finished, snatching his list back from Harry's hands.

"Right," Harry acknowledged. "But that's... a problem?"

Draco thought for a moment, looked at the stained, old tile beneath his socked feet and found the crack in the linoleum he'd intentionally sat down upon ages ago. This new, tiny life, provided to him as a sort of punishment, had been more important to him than any of those years of trying to prove he was a  _Malfoy_. The ‘problem’, as Harry had so eloquently put it, was that he had no idea how to reconcile these two halves of himself.

"I just...I also miss magic. And having nice clothes. I miss my mother… and my friends," Draco said softly. 

"Well," Harry began with a smirk, "Yeah. That makes sense. You'll have them back, though. And no one is going to take charity shops or toasters away from you."

Draco glared.

"What! I’m serious," Harry said with a sheepish grin that actually made Draco feel a small jolt of lightness.

"It’s just…" Draco tried again. "I'm afraid it's all been pointless."

"What’s been pointless?"

"This time…these months. Not helping my mother through this. All of it.”

“What are you afraid of, though?”

“I mean... what if I go back, to my full life, and I just end up exactly who they wanted me to be."

Harry considered the kitchen floor for a moment, then gently took the list back from Draco. He read it over and shrugged.

"Guess it's a possibility. You are still a pointy git, after all," Harry teased. "Roger called me when he left here, said you were acting weird. I knew exactly what he meant because I'm sure you were a jerk to the one person trying to help you. Am I right?" Draco sighed and dropped his head to his knees. He nodded against them without looking up. "That's exactly it, though, Draco," Harry continued. "You aren't unpredictable or ever-changing. You are the same as you have always been. It's just now… it's only that. There's no one else in charge of you or your choices. You decide how you live."

Draco looked up.

"It's just you. Believe me when I tell you that it can really suck. Sometimes, you just need someone to tell you what to do," Harry said with a chuckle. "Most of the time, it’s great though. To be the only one making decisions about your life? It's worth it."

By the end of his little, impassioned speech, Draco found he was staring at Harry. Harry, who had turned up in the middle of the night at the first ring of a very cryptic phone call. Harry, who was sitting on his kitchen floor without hesitation, just seven months and fourteen days after releasing Draco from jail, and defending him when no one else had. Harry, who was complicated and simple at the same time, trusting and defensive, careful and reckless, a bigger walking contradiction than Draco was himself. He felt it again, the pounding, aching shift that tugged deep behind his sternum. It was painful and he had to look away.

"I want the cabin. My mother’s cabin in the mountain?" Draco implored suddenly, trying to diffuse his own discomfort. Harry barked in short laughter.

"What?" Draco asked with a huff. "I do. It's beautiful. It's in the Pyrenees."

"No, it's just… your mother said you'd say that. She said it might be the only thing you’d ask for. She also said it's yours if you want to deal with the transfer paperwork," Harry chuckled.

"Typical," Draco mused with a small smile. "That woman _hates_ solicitors. I can't believe you actually went to see her. How did that go?"

"Mostly, she was confused. She just kept saying ‘why would he send you'. And she was happy to hear you were healthy, at least. It sucked to not say how well you’re doing out here. She thinks you’re still in jail, which is not a nice thing to know. We just stood in the doorway for a while. I told her you missed her. I think she was actually just relieved when I left."

"Fair enough,” Draco whispered, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you, though. I... I was worried. I could have asked Kingsley—”

"Don't worry, honestly. No trouble,” Harry insisted.

There was a weird shared smile that made Draco very uncomfortable, hackles up and defensive. His skin was hot and itchy and he felt the ridiculous urge to flee.

"Why are you here?" he asked suddenly.

"Um, mate," Harry laughed. "If you seriously don't remember calling me half an hour ago and asking me to come here, then we might have a problem."

"I meant, _why_ did you come?" Draco asked. Harry simply shrugged, though Draco was sure he was imagining the blush.

* * *

They sat in silence for a long time; it might have been an hour, maybe even more. Harry’s arse was numb and he had shifted to having his legs stretched out in front of him. He was tired, but he didn't want to sleep; something felt heavy and important in the quiet, midnight kitchen, but he couldn't place it. He stayed silent instead.  
  
He had been thinking about the question since Draco asked; why _was_ he here? Was it because Draco needed a friend to deal with his father's death? Was that enough? That's the reason he _should_ have given for sitting on this floor right now. In fact, even the _‘I work for the Ministry_ ’ excuse would have been enough.   
  
Somehow, though, Harry knew it was neither of those things.   
  
He looked to his left and his stomach dropped to the floor; Draco, here in the moonlit quiet, was soft and light, and even with this one brief glance, Soft Malfoy was Harry's new favourite thing. His hair was dishevelled and unguarded, his eyes tired rather than shrewd, and he was in sweats like a common peasant, sitting on the floor of a Muggle flat, sad about perfectly human things. The shocking contrasts between this man and the old-world Draco made anything seem possible. All the problems that he rarely let himself think about seemed tiny and conquerable.   
  
If _Draco Malfoy_ was soft and pliable, then maybe Hermione could go back to her research and her real job and finally change the world. Maybe Ginny and Luna would stay in England instead of flitting all over the world. If Draco wasn't all sharp, pointy edges, then there was a chance that Ron would stop drinking and turn back into Harry's best friend. Maybe, just maybe, he could sort himself out too, figure out who he was, how he felt, and what the fuck he was going to do with the rest of his life.   
  
He was so lost in his own thoughts—not to mention his focus on studying the side of Draco's head—that he only caught the tail end of a question Draco was asking, the first words uttered in a long time.   
  
"...and don't know what to do now. Am I supposed to just move on?"   
  
Harry dragged himself out of his own head and remembered sharply that Draco had just lost a parent. He chastised himself soundly and resolved to ignore his own mental crisis just a little while longer.   
  
"Well," Harry replied sadly. "I don't think you do move on. Not really. You just sort of become a new version of who you thought you were," Harry said, confusing even himself.   
  
"What?" Draco drawled, tired and unimpressed.   
  
"I mean, this one time—"   
  
"Nope," Draco declared with a chuckle. "You know what, don't. Just. Don't."   
  
"Don't _what_?" Harry laughed.   
  
Draco smirked, his arms collapsing so that his hands rested on the floor and his head hit the cupboard with a soft thunk. "You were about to tell me one of your ridiculous stories of bravery and stoicism. Or at the very least, about a time when you were very stupid and still managed to survive. And honestly, _Potter_ , I'm tired. I'll try to pretend I understand and I won't, and I'm not in the mood, so just... don't."   
  
"I wasn't," Harry protested with a grin. He definitely had been about to tell a story, and they both knew it.   
  
"Right," Draco retorted. "We'll pretend I believe you."   
  
He grinned at Harry then, a wide, open, honest thing that was out of place in the dim light and silence. The smile caught him off guard and broke a tension that had barely been noticeable until now. Suddenly, Harry couldn't take it.   
  
Suddenly, the reason he was here was painful and stark and right in front of them both.   
  
Harry's hands were moving before he even realised he was still laughing. Before he managed to remember how breathing worked, and he didn't exhale as his fingers caught the heavy air. His sock-covered toes brushed against the edge of Draco's legs as he spun to move closer and he shivered. He pulled Draco's chin with deft fingers until they were just inches apart, and his lips made contact before the giggle had fully died out, meaning his mouth was still slightly open when he swallowed Draco's gasping sigh.   
  
For a moment, there was resistance; later, Harry would find he was glad that his brain hadn't quite sorted out what it was doing because that hesitation should have made him pull away. It took him too long to catch up, though, and Draco changed his mind in the beat between the giggle and the kiss.   
  
Draco calmly shifted closer, and his hands landed on top of Harry’s, fingers intertwining as they rested against Draco’s neck. He held Harry's hands firmly as he leaned into the kiss; it was not perfect or groundbreaking, but it was a kiss where there maybe shouldn’t have been one, and it made them both gasp as a result. When Draco's hands moved away from his and he pulled himself even closer to straddle Harry's legs on the floor, everything changed.   
  
Draco's chest, solid and comfortable, even where his ribs still jutted just a bit too much, pressed firmly against his own. Harry could only focus on their joint heartbeats, their ragged breaths as they synchronised through joint lips. Draco's fingers, long and slender were in his hair, teasing away the small hairs behind his ears that always plagued him. The sensation of warmth from Draco's thighs made Harry shudder, and a tongue swiped at his for the briefest of seconds before Draco gasped and pulled away. Harry was bereft for a moment before sheer terror and embarrassment took its place.   
  
"We can't," Draco exclaimed, breathless and standing quickly.   
  
"I'm sorry," Harry whined, already lamenting the loss of warmth.   
  
"No, that's—we just. We can't," Draco repeated.   
  
"I didn't mean to—you just needed…fuck, I—" Harry broke off, falling silent and giving into his shame. He forced himself to look up at Draco, who was adjusting his shirt and fixing his hair. His whole body shuddered at the sight and he opened his mouth to apologise again.   
  
"I'm going to go to bed," Draco announced before Harry managed to speak, and without a backward glance, he marched off, leaving Harry shaking on the kitchen floor. He was horrified and exhausted at the same time, and it came as very little shock to him when the bedroom door at the other end of the flat shut with an audible click as he froze in place on the tile, cold and alone.

 


	12. Chapter 12

He didn’t notice the time passing, so it was shocking was when he woke on that same tile some hours later, to a gentle tapping at the door. He had a crick in his neck and his back was killing him, but he stretched out uncomfortably and stood shakily, answering the door before he even realised what a poor plan that was; this wasn't his flat, and he was about to meet someone in mismatched pyjamas at an unreasonably early hour. It became even more terrible when he discovered Kingsley standing on the other side, in his bright, official robes.   
  
"I slept on the floor," Harry blurted immediately, realising the second he had spoken that the words were illogical, unnecessary, and would almost certainly make everything worse.   
  
"Was something wrong with the sofa?" Kingsley questioned with an arched brow. His odd tone was the only indication that he was slightly annoyed about something. Before Harry could reply, he was waved off. "Nevermind, I don't care. Ms Granger thought you might be here. We need to go. Now. I have convinced the council to meet about this change in Malfoy's case, but they only had time this morning, or else early next month. I have spare robes in my office."   
  
"What?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. “What change?”   
  
"A boy should not miss his father's funeral," Kingsley answered gravely.   
  
Harry stared at him.   
  
"Not against his will," Kingsley added, offering an arm to Side-Along Harry straight into his office, a privilege that he supposed was appropriately reserved for the Minister for Magic. 

Fifteen minutes later, sitting in large, borrowed robes, with hair that was not obeying the magic he'd used to try and smooth it down, he was no closer to understanding the last twenty-four hours than he had been upon waking up on the floor.   
  
He'd _kissed_ Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. He'd _enjoyed_ kissing Malfoy, no less, and that was the far more horrifying and complicated fact, in the long run. Harry Potter, kissing Draco Malfoy, that was one thing. The trouble really existed in the fact that Harry now knew he was hardly going to settle for one kiss. Nowhere in all of his experimenting had he felt like he understood life—like he could handle all of its problems—after one brief, simple moment of contact.   
  
Draco, though, had pulled away like he'd been shot. Run from the kitchen. Locked himself in his room. Which made sense, since Harry had attacked him out of the blue after being asked for support from an acquaintance in a time of grief.   
  
How could he still be so reckless, even after all these years? He winced internally; _Harry fucking Potter,_ he chastised. _Messing it all up, as usual._   
  
"What have you to say, Harry?" a small blonde witch asked, shaking him back to reality. He cleared his throat and stared at her. He honestly hadn't been listening; he'd been a bit busy having an internal existential crisis.   
  
Kingsley saw and took pity on him.   
  
"You'll have to forgive Harry. He has been going above and beyond in his duties and I fear he may be a bit distracted," Kingsley said apologetically. "Mr Malfoy has been relying on him rather heavily."   
  
"No, he hasn't," Harry protested immediately, a defensive edge to his voice that may not help his case in a moment.   
  
"I'm sorry?" Kingsley asked. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing, Harry. It's just that Ms Granger gave the impression that—"   
  
"Well, he hasn't," Harry insisted. "I've barely done anything for him at all. He finished the programme alone, with flying colours, too. He found a Muggle job, is really good at it. He's worked impossibly hard for the past seven months."   
  
"I wasn't implying that he hadn't, Mr Potter," Kingsley interjected.   
  
"Forgive me, Minister, but we both know you were," Harry said angrily. "I find it miraculous that you have all forgiven _me_ my numerous transgressions during the war, and yet refuse to acknowledge that there was no black and white of good and evil on those grounds. Especially not during that final battle."   
  
Another of the council members, the one with the pinched nose and the angry eyes, muttered, "I don't think that his help at the end excuses Malfoy—"   
  
"Yes, thank you," Harry interrupted. "You've made that opinion abundantly clear. So why are we here?"   
  
"We are trying to decide if Malfoy can be excused part of his sentence," a helpful wizard supplied. Harry did his best not to growl. He stood up and began to pace about the room.   
  
"This is stupid," he hissed, glaring at the table of assembled council members.

Various old, grumpy faces stared back at him incredulously, and he tried to reign himself in a bit before continuing. He’d get nowhere if they all dismissed him as an overly impassioned youth.

"I have been trying, for years, to figure out my place in this world I helped create and to be honest, Minister, I haven't been that successful." He stood in front of a large painting, commemorating one of the giant wars, and stared at it until his eyes blurred. "I still don't know who I am or what I'm supposed to be doing," Harry said with a shrug.

"Yet, here is Draco Malfoy, who was told all his life that he had a special place ready for him, that he knew exactly who he was. Now, that place and that person don't exist anymore." He looked back at the council. "No one is questioning that we are all very fortunate in that regard."   
  
Kingsley rubbed his temples and wrote a small note. Harry inhaled deeply and pressed on. There was no turning back at this point.   
  
"But, when you told Malfoy he had to prove he deserved to exist, he did more than that. He _thrived_. He set to it without a grumble or a complaint and he remade himself," Harry insisted. "He's a Pureblood living as a Muggle, and he's doing it better than I ever could, even though technically I was raised Muggle. Draco created a new space for himself under ridiculous circumstances, and moreover, he's actually _happy_."   
  
Harry paused and went to sit back down, with a graceless and weary thud that he did not apologise for. "I wonder, honestly, Ministers, if anyone at this table would have survived under the conditions you created for him. I somehow doubt it."   
  
He stared at each witch and wizard around him, none of them young enough to have been at that battle, none of them scarred enough to understand. Harry closed his eyes against their judgmental stares; his head hurt, and he wanted his bed.   
  
"He deserves his wand back," he concluded through clenched teeth and darkness. " _Now_. Today. If you can't see that, then I don't know why I'm here. At the very least, you need to let him see his mother and his friends. He is grieving, and your plan is to keep him from them? Why? How does creating more pain help the ones we've lost?"   
  
"Harry, that's what we are here to discuss," Kingsley interrupted quietly.   
  
Harry flushed and looked at his hands. "Well. That's how I feel. He is not innocent, even he doesn't believe that. But he has served his time, and I promise you, he's punished himself more harshly than we ever could."   
  
Conclusion reached, he stood and left the room; he didn’t want to hear their inane deliberations.   
The atrium echoed loudly around him as his footfall mingled with the sounds of jovial chatting and Ministry noises; it was early and they'd scored the main meeting room this time, on the first floor. People were starting to arrive for work, since, he supposed, this was an ordinary day for them. Harry swallowed his panic and searched for any possible detail he could focus on; to his left, he found a plaque, small and unnoticeable at first. It was dark with murk and grime, though it couldn’t have been that old. It read “ _for the ones we have lost who's loyalty we never understood”._ The words made him shiver as he contemplated their meaning.  
  
"Potter," Kingsley's deep voice said behind him, making him jump. "Here. They think you should tell him."   
  
Harry turned to find Kingsley offering him a long, old-fashioned box, and a small velvet bag that jingled as it swayed.   
  
"Are you alright?" Kingsley asked gently. "That was a very…passionate speech."   
  
"Thank you, Minister. For your time" Harry stated.   
  
If Kingsley honestly thought Harry was about to confide in him about anything, given the way he had been using him since the beginning of this whole adventure, he was sorely mistaken. Kingsley's face fell, and Harry chose not to care. He strode away, holding the box of Malfoy's wand and his personal effects stretched out in front of him as if at any moment, either he or they might explode. 


	13. Chapter 13

Draco had been pacing around the kitchen since he'd woken up late, fully dressed, and sprawled diagonally across the bed. His stomach grumbled and protested, but he couldn't make himself rest or eat. He was trying to decide how much of what had happened the night before had been real. None of the things he wanted to scream and pitch a fit about were related to his father's death and he was angry. The problem, of course, was that the anger only occupied a small portion of his brain. He was instead worrying and overthinking. When the doorbell rang, he gave an undignified yelp.  
  
Hoping against hope that it wasn't Roger standing on the other side, he flung the door open. He had to suppress a screech when he found Harry standing on the landing instead.  
  
"I have your wand," the git muttered unemotionally, holding out a long box and a paper bag.  
  
Draco stared at him agape for a minute, holding the doorknob in a death grip as he took in an exhausted face and messy hair; he was in robes that didn't fit him, in the lurid Ministry mauve that made Draco want to vomit. Harry explained nothing more despite being given ample time, and Draco finally snapped. He did not reach out to take the box from his hand.  
  
"You fucking _kissed_ me, Potter!" Draco yelled in response, letting go of the door and stepping forward. He was satisfied when Harry took a step back and inhaled sharply.  
  
"Um," Harry responded intelligently, dropping his hands and huffing.  
  
"You kissed me,"  Draco repeated, "and then you _disappeared_ ."  
  
He glared at Harry hard and waited.  
  
"I have your wand?" Harry repeated.  
  
"Explain yourself," Draco deadpanned.  
  
"You left the kitchen like I'd burned you," Harry grumbled. "What was I supposed to do?"  
  
"Well, I hope you're happy," Draco growled.  
  
Harry, following what was clearly a very well thought out plan, continued to ignore Draco's protests. He cleared his throat and repeated, "I have your—"  
  
"My wand, yes, I bloody _heard_ you, Potter. We will discuss that in a moment." Draco ran his hands across his face, exasperated already. He was very fucking stupid, and he was going to live to regret this. "I ask you, Harry, what am I supposed to do _now_."  
  
"What do you—"  
  
"How am I supposed to go about my day-to-day business? How do I do my very boring job and talk to my equally boring friends, all the while knowing that you are a bloody _fantastic_ kisser? Hm?"  
  
He stepped forward again and Harry instinctively reached for his own wand with his free hand. Draco just sighed again and continued.  
  
"How do you expect me to walk around knowing that Harry _fucking_ Potter is a brilliant, marvellous, exasperatingly clueless kisser!?"  
  
Harry's attempts to appear nonchalant finally failed him and Draco wanted to pump the air in triumph when he became flustered and shocked. The look was so familiar that all of Draco's previous concerns vanished.  
  
He grabbed his wand box from Harry's hands and pulled him forward by the ludicrously long robes he was wearing until they were both inside the flat. He slammed the door behind them and had Harry up against it in the same movement. His wand box fell noisily to the ground, even though he could feel the hum of its proximity and a tiny voice in his head was keening and begging for his magic to be released.  
  
"How dare you," Draco hissed, stepping into Harry's space and pressing him flat with a hand on his chest. "How dare you kiss me and then leave."  
  
"You left first," Harry whispered, his hands reaching forward but not quite grabbing Draco in return, instead settling into a restless sort of stroking pattern down Draco's sides, the touch light and maddening on the surface of his t-shirt.  
  
"Listen to me," Draco murmured, voice in Harry's ear as he pressed more firmly into Harry's chest. "I literally _always_ will. I can't even promise otherwise. Whether or not you can handle that is not my problem. Understood?"  
  
Harry didn't bother answering, he just grabbed Draco viciously, fingers finally scraping against skin because Draco's shirt had ridden up just past his hips, and Harry had been staring at the small slip of skin since the door opened. Draco had definitely noticed that. He was firm and insistent, not bothering to ask permission this time; gone were his hesitation and confusion. Draco's lips knew where his were this time, and their tongues met in the same moment, as though they had both known it was coming.  
  
Honestly, they probably had. They had both said so much, _too_ much, and the past seven months had been only the surface. There was no more room for apology or remorse, no more time for awkward friendship. They had never meant to be that.  
  
"Roger," Harry managed a moment later.  
  
"Broke up with him yesterday," Draco murmured, shoving a knee between Harry's legs and making them both gasp. "That’s why he called you. Quiet."  
  
"Slag," Harry sighed, rutting hopelessly against Draco nonetheless.  
  
"Would certainly seem so, wouldn't it," Draco laughed. "Apparently that's your thing."  
  
"Who knew," Harry moaned, dragging Draco closer again until his elbows were resting on Draco's shoulders, his hands massaging his scalp as their mouths reconnected.  
  
When Draco pulled away a moment later, Harry whined in protest.  
  
"Oh, Hermione is going to kill me," Draco sputtered.  
  
"W-what?" Harry said, stepping away from the door and advancing toward Draco again.  
  
"She told me not to do this. Let you get attached."  
  
Harry grimaced.  
  
"Relax," Draco grinned. "I'm not sure this is what she had in mind."  
  
They kissed in the centre of Draco's living room, spinning and growling. Nothing ever advanced further, and slowly, passion waned. It was strange and perfect and neither of them made any effort to move.  
  
"Your wand," Harry said finally, "You're free."  
  
Draco, breathing hard with hands still wandering across Harry's back, said, "Oh."  
  
"Don't you want to…"  
  
"I should go see my mother," Draco agreed reluctantly.  
  
"Pause?" Harry said hopefully.  
  
"Oh definitely pause," Draco agreed, kissing Harry lightly. "Although, I really have to ask… when did you decide to assault me. You hate me."  
  
"You idiot," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I haven't hated you since the dragon story."  
  
"What?" Draco asked, perplexed.  
  
"You were nine," Harry prompted.  
  
"I told you about Peru?" Draco said, bewildered.  
  
Harry smiled sadly. "At some other time, I should give you my notes. I keep forgetting you were…"  
  
"Almost dead?"  
  
Harry looked at the ground, and Draco's hand snaked beneath his chin to lift it again.  
  
"Hey," he said, in that soft tone that had first made Harry finally listen to what Malfoy had to say. "I put myself in Azkaban. And you took me back out. Don't think I don't know that."  
  
"I unlocked the door," Harry argued. "I didn't do anything to help you soar out of it."  
  
"How are you so fucking cheesy and yet so perfect? It's maddening," Draco sighed, shaking his head.  
  
"Says the idiot with all the stupid ideas," Harry grumbled. Draco smirked and kissed him lightly.  
  
"Go," he said, drawing back. "This is to be continued."

* * *

 Harry reluctantly went home. Truthfully, he did not want to leave Draco's flat, even with Draco now gone. What if the kiss was fragile? Time-sensitive? He needed more, and he was petrified that distance and time would destroy his chance at clarity. Still, Draco had earned trust and time with his mother. He deserved to be free to grieve and see his family.  
  
His hesitant departure turned to apprehension when he got home and found Hermione waiting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in her hands; he cringed when she looked up at him with tired eyes, but she ignored his discomfort and kicked out a chair. He sat immediately. He was still wearing Kingsley robes over his spotted pj's, smelling and feeling horrible; linoleum, after all, wasn't exactly recommended by the Chiropractor's Association of Britain for a restful night's sleep. Still, he sat. Hermione's face compelled him not to argue.  
  
"Where have you been, then?" she asked wearily. "Never mind. Don't answer. I know exactly where you were. I saw it coming, as per usual."  
  
"How?" Harry whined. "I didn't."  
  
She smirked at him blearily. "You never do. I've known since he sat on the floor of the flat and looked at you every three seconds while he was trying to concentrate on a board game.”  
  
"Hermione, there’s nothing going on. It was just an emergency," Harry insisted. "It's my job. And then the council—"  
  
"Harry," she interrupted. "I can't do this with you right now. If I could, I would remind you of every minute of recovery time you required after every trip to Azkaban. Of every insult the idiot threw at you in school."  
  
"People change, Hermione," Harry said defensively.  
  
"Oh trust me, Potter. Of that, I am _very_ well aware,” she grimaced. “Today, in particular, you do _not_ need to tell me that people change.”  
  
"What? Hermione, what's happened?" Harry asked, alarmed.  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Ron has been sacked. Or at least, put on leave. He blew up at the Head Auror over some stupid paperwork error and…"  
  
She dropped her head onto the table and he reached out to take her hand. She turned to face him, the ring that had sat on her left ring finger for the better part of two years spinning listlessly and reminding him how much weight she'd been losing. She looked very old and very tired, and he wanted to bundle them all into a time machine and drive back to the last time they'd all understood how to do this. She wasn't even crying, and that was never good news; a Hermione resolute and unwavering was a dangerous person indeed.  
  
"Harry," she exploded suddenly, "what am I supposed to do? Do I stay? He won't even admit it's a problem…"  
  
"We could just drop him off somewhere… The hospital?"  
  
"What good will that do?" Hermione said miserably. "When he gets back, he'll still hate being an Auror. And Fred will still be dead. And you will still have abandoned him."  
  
"What? _Abandoned_ him?"  
  
"That's what he says, all the time. That you've given up on us." Hermione said this carefully, lifting her head to look at him.  
  
"But… you know that isn't true, right?"  
  
She shrugged.  
  
"Hermione," he said desperately. "I _live_ here. How can I have abandoned you when I live here?"  
  
Hermione hesitated and Harry tilted his head. She needed to say something, and he was determined to let her.  
  
"You live here because the apartment reminded you of Ginny and you needed to escape," she said eventually. "Not because you were here for _us_ ."  
  
He sighed. She was both completely right and entirely off base, and he had no idea how to contradict her. He didn't bother trying.  
  
"Kingsley was here," Hermione said. "He said you were… he said you had a permanent job with them if you wanted."  
  
"Well, he didn't say anything to me," Harry replied miserably. They stared at each other over Hermione’s tea mug for a moment before she cleared her throat and stood suddenly.  
  
"Go shower. You look like death. I'm making some chilli," she said, patting his hand.  
  
"There isn't anything I wouldn't do to help him,” Harry insisted. “I just don't have an answer either."  
  
Hermione smiled at him sadly, breaking his heart. The front door slammed, and the echo that followed shook the windows in their frames. Hermione's face begged him not to do anything, but he ignored her.  
  
"Hi, Ron," Harry said cautiously as he stepped into the entryway, hands in robe pockets and the picture of nonchalance.  
  
"What do you want?" Ron replied grumpily. He wasn't drunk, from what Harry could see. Just angry.  
  
"It's been ages since we had a proper pub dinner. Want to? I just need to change."  
  
Ron eyed him suspiciously but finally nodded.  
  
"Great, give me ten," Harry exhaled.


	14. Chapter 14

The pub they ended up in was the sort of place with cheap fluorescent lighting and burgundy carpet; your drink came included with your meal, and the tables were numbered so you had to actually remember it before you went to the bar to order. It stunk of stale beer and chips, and it instantly lifted Harry's spirits.  
  
Even Ron seemed a bit lighter as he sat down across from Harry and ordered a coke. Harry sighed internally in relief; apparently, Ron had decided now was not the time. No one, in fact, ever  _saw_ him drink. It was the far more disturbing part of his strange life choices since moving back to London.   
  
"I heard about the job," Harry said as Ron sat back down after ordering, apropos of nothing. "I'm sorry."   
  
"Are you now," Ron replied scathingly.   
  
"Of course, Ron," Harry sighed. "Why wouldn't I be?"   
  
"Would've thought it'd make you happy to think I couldn't hack it either," Ron grumbled, sipping on his drink and not making eye contact. Harry picked at a crack in the table and tried to decide how to proceed.   
  
"We've been over this," he mumbled eventually. "It's not what I wanted anymore. It had nothing to do with… anything."   
  
"Sure, whatever," Ron retorted sulkily. "And Ginny left because you were better as friends."   
  
"Well, yes?" Harry supplied, confused as to what Ron was getting at.   
  
"Luna told me about the blokes," he blurted suddenly.   
  
"Oh," Harry replied miserably. Is that what all of this was about? With Ginny dating Luna, he hadn't thought to be worried about Ron knowing. He'd never seemed prejudiced or uncomfortable around them, after all.   
  
"Oh?" Ron hissed. " _Oh_. That's all you have to say about the fact that you didn't tell me something that important?"   
  
"You didn't seem…" Harry started.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Well, I mean, honestly Ron?" Harry said angrily. "You haven't seemed that interested in being part of anyone else's life lately. Have you even noticed—" He stopped short and sighed. "You're losing her, Ron," he said more quietly.   
  
"Good," Ron said angrily. "I'll complete my collection of things I've lost."   
  
Harry just fiddled with his pint for a moment and finally, Ron sighed in return.   
  
"When did we get so turned around, Harry?" he asked quietly. His face was pale, thin wrinkles settling on his forehead. None of them ever got enough sleep, Harry knew; Auror shifts were unpredictable, made worse by Ron's regular disappearances.   
  
"I think it might have been somewhere between defeating Voldemort and leaving Scotland, if I'm honest," Harry answered, though he knew the question had been rhetorical. "Do you remember the list?"   
  
"Hm," Ron grunted. "Didn't go so well did it?"   
  
"For you either," Harry answered grimly.   
  
As their food arrived, Ron gulped his soda as though it might save him, and Harry began picking at his chips; the weight of years of unsaid things sat between them as the minutes stretched on, the general din of the pub floating in and around them imperceptibly.   
  
"I don't even know why I do it," Ron declared suddenly. "It started because I just… needed a minute. At the end of the day? I love Hermione, I do, but she isn't always the most patient person, you know?"   
  
Harry simply nodded, recognising the need for Ron to get this out. It was the most he had ever explained to anyone in the entire two years he'd been a full duty Auror.   
  
"It was one drink, then home. Sometimes with the others from the division, but not always. I just needed a minute to breathe," Ron continued. "You and Ginny—you weren't around, and I dunno... I didn't realise how much you and I used to just…."   
  
"Vent," Harry concluded. He knew. He'd missed it too. "Yeah."   
  
"Well, yes. But then... then it just got harder to go home. So I would have another. And another. Until—" Ron hesitated. "Well, you know."   
  
"Yeah, I kinda do."   
  
"I don't hate it," Ron said confusingly. Harry stared. "The job? I know Hermione thinks I hate it, but I don't. I like being an Auror."   
  
"You sure?" Harry asked sceptically.   
  
"Yeah," Ron insisted.   
  
"But?"   
  
"But…" Ron started. "But I think I need some help."   
  
"You don't say," Harry replied. Ron smiled shyly. "We can figure it out. Both of us."   
  
"Well, I mean... fine."   
  
Harry burst into hysterical laughter that made Ron jump slightly.   
  
"What?" Ron asked, alarmed.   
  
Harry sobered slightly but laughed again as he tried to explain. Ron cracked a small smile and said ‘what' again, and Harry tried once more.   
  
"You have given me _three_ black eyes," he started. "Over the past year, you've broken two windows, floo called Hermione drunk so many times we've lost count, and gotten taken to St Mungo's against your will. Are you telling me that all it took was losing your job and eating chips with me to make you realise something needed to change?"   
  
Ron looked at the table as his face flushed; if Harry hadn't known him better, he'd have guessed it was shame.   
  
"I need to tell you something," Harry said softly. He wasn't sure where his mouth was leading him right now, but he was positive that there had been enough secrets between them this past year. Telling him about Draco, right now, was the right thing to do. He needed to know what was going to happen before anything went any further. He started to speak again but lost his courage.   
  
"Malfoy has his wand back," Ron supplied instead, fiddling with his napkin. Harry, confused about the turn of the conversation, did not stop him as he continued. "Yeah, I know. Kingsley told me when he took me off active duty. Seems to think I'm not safe knowing where and who the Former Slytherins are."   
  
Harry hesitated before asking. "Is he… is he right?"   
  
Ron looked away from Harry and he let him be, munching on a piece the ubiquitous celery that came with chips which he'd never before eaten in a pub. He waited out Ronald Weasley, a skill he had learned to appreciate. It wasn't often that Ron waited and thought before he spoke. When he decided he should, you owed it to him to listen.   
  
Finally, Ron put down the fork that he'd been fiddling with and sat up straight; he squared his shoulders and faced Harry as though bracing for a storm. It was frightening.   
  
"Kingsley told me something else," Ron began. "He has a connection in Boston. With MACUSA. They had a lot of our people flee there, right after the war. From what I hear it was a mess for about a year. They're about a year behind us in rounding people up. Sentencing. Apparently, they've decided not to extradite."   
  
Ron paused as though Harry was going to be shocked or interrupt, but none of this was news. They had been hearing about how much of a mess the international communities were since basically the day after the final battle; war, after all, does not occur in isolation.   
  
Ron cleared his throat. "The thing is," he continued. "Kingsley seems to think the job is perfect for you. They need someone to interview possible witnesses."   
  
"Ron," Harry interrupted harshly. "Get to the point. What are you implying?"   
  
"I knew it would come, one day," Ron said quietly. "I think Hermione did too, actually. We talked about it, back in Scotland? When they were doing their final year. Course, we always thought it was going to be with Ginny, but the outcome is the same, isn't it?"   
  
"What outcome?" Harry insisted. He was bracing for... something, and he really wasn't sure what it was. How had he walked into a fight?   
  
"You," Ron said simply. "Abandoning us."   
  
"Abandon—Ron, I don't even know what the hell Kingsley is talking about!" Harry said, possibly more loudly than he'd intended, given the glances from the surrounding tables. "He hasn't said anything to me."   
  
"I don't see how that can be true," Ron grumbled. "The man was positively salivating. Praising you, saying how excited he was for you to have the opportunity. That you had the full support of the Ministry."   
  
"Ron. Hang on a moment. You don't seriously think—"     
  
"Look, Harry, it's fine, okay? I think you know what we're doing here is silly or whatever."   
  
Harry floundered. "You think that? Because I didn't become an Auror, too?" Harry asked the question with a lump in his throat. This conversation was long overdue between them, and that was entirely his own fault.   
  
"Ron," he insisted in the midst of heavy silence. "That isn't true. We had a plan. It was such a good one. I'm the one who fucked it all up. I couldn't be good enough—I couldn't be good enough for Ginny, for the Ministry. For you and Hermione. I couldn't even—Ron, I don't know if you‘ve realised this, but I'm not exactly good at recalculating when shit goes wrong."   
  
"You don't say," Ron said wryly.

They stared at each other across the table wearing matching wry expressions.  
  
"Boston?" Harry muttered eventually.   
  
"Are you thinking about it?" Ron asked gently.   
  
Harry honestly didn't have an answer, but Ron nodded as though that was answer enough. "Think we should head home, don't you?" he murmured.   
  
They apparated separately and were therefore separately shocked to find Hermione, Ginny, and Luna standing on the front stoop, three suitcases and a cardboard box at their feet. Ron figured it out almost immediately, but it took Harry a moment to catch up with the grim expressions on everyone’s faces.   
  
"No," Ron yelled ferociously. "No, _please_. I've just told Harry. I'm going to… it's time to get help. Please, Hermione."   
  
"Please stop the dramatics, Ronald," Hermione replied wearily. "I'm just going to take a break. For a while. Clear my head. You both need… well, it's impacting my work. I refuse to let either of you do that to me. I'm going to stay with the girls for a while. We'll talk. In a couple of days."   
  
She Disapparated quickly, without a backwards glance. Ginny gave Harry an apologetic sort of glance before following with her last bag. Luna patted Ron on the shoulder and disappeared as well. Harry braced himself when they were finally alone on the porch, and Ron immediately lost it.   
  
Harry had seen Ron go through many things; he'd been there to see his family lose a child. There when Ron had thought Harry had betrayed him. There when Ron had returned from a painful, frightening disappearance during the war. He’d seen Ron rage and cry, go silent with sadness and fury, watched as he defended the honour of those he loved. Ron was a force of nature, in a quiet package of gentle grace, and when he let go, it was utterly heartbreaking to see.   
  
None of those times could compare to the despair that he unleashed now.   
  
He screamed into the air and it was a sickening, keening sound, slicing into the silence of the neighbourhood. Harry cast a quick barrier on the porch to ward off nosy neighbours and rushed to his friend's side. Ron collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach, a sound of grief still wordlessly pouring from his lips.   
  
"Come on," Harry begged gently. "Come on, Ron. Let's get you inside."   
  
Ron, however, pitched and flailed, a long, powerful limb catching Harry on the cheek as he lashed out with a sharp, highly-trained elbow. He crumbled further into himself, shouting obscenities to the wind, screaming Fred's name, calling for Hermione, demanding an answer that they all knew did not exist. It was worse than when he was drunk; this pain, this intangible level of despair. No amount of sleep or hangover cure could help. Nothing could save them.   
  
Harry finally clutched to Ron's shoulders tightly as his anger turned to sobs. A shimmer to his right caught Harry's eye, and he turned to find a wide-eyed, startled, blonde head, watching carefully with wand drawn.   
  
"What are you doing here?" Harry growled. "Just go."   
  
"Let me help," Draco whispered, stepping closer slowly.   
  
"You can't help," Harry hissed, turning away.   
  
Draco just ignored him. He leant close to Ron and muttered something in his ear too quietly for Harry to hear; Ron stiffened but nodded, his limbs going dead at his sides. Then, without waiting for further confirmation, Draco wrenched him up by the armpits, leveraging the nearly listless body—twice his size and barely helping in the assent—as though Ron was a small child throwing a tantrum about naptime.   
  
"You need to call Healer Singh. At Mungo's? She'll come. She can take him straight there," Draco stated to Harry once Ron was stood.

Harry stared at him, frozen.

"Harry," Draco insisted. "Go. Floo. Now."   
  
Finally shaking himself from his trance, Harry nodded shortly and headed inside while Draco pulled Ron over to the porch seat slowly. He was staring off into space while Draco murmured to him unintelligibly. It was a strange sight, a Weasley accepting comfort from a Malfoy. In another moment, it would have given Harry pause; instead, he turned away from the stark scene and rushed inside. He was angry himself, and no amount of pausing was going to help. How could Hermione have done this, with no warning and no attempt to help them both understand? It was uncharacteristic, and he was angry at the selfishness even though he knew she had definitely earned it.   
  
Armed with only a name, Harry called the emergency line at St. Mungo's with trepidation. He explained to the nurse on duty in as few words as possible, and fifteen minutes later, he was running around Ron's bedroom, gathering a few belongings into a duffle bag while Healer Singh spoke to Ron on the porch under the confusingly watchful and silent eye of Draco Malfoy.   
  
Ten minutes after that, he was sitting on the steps of Hermione's house watching the same healer walk Ron down the street. Apparently, they were going to meet a car on the high street; Ron was not stable enough to Apparate.   
  
Harry's face hurt where the elbow bruise was blooming, but he was barely aware of the fact. He was suddenly very focused on his need to shower and sleep. When Draco sat beside him on the step, he snapped.   
  
"Seriously," he mumbled. "Why are you here? You were supposed to be visiting your mother."   
  
"I did," Draco protested gently. "She's napping now. And I saw Pansy, but she had to go back to work. Apparently, when you come back from the dead, you discover that the living keep on living."   
  
"So you came here," Harry snarled. " _That_ makes sense."   
  
Draco sighed as though Harry was a child, which was appropriate but also increased his anger tenfold.   
  
"I was just going to ask if my father's ring was somewhere other than in the things they confiscated when they arrested me," Draco said, standing slowly. "I didn't realise I was unwelcome here."   
  
Harry blushed and looked away, fury flooding through him.   
  
"So what," Draco continued, anger in his own reply. "Now that you're not my watcher, we just go back to being mortal enemies? Sounds dreary. Especially considering…"   
  
"Look Malfoy, I'm sorry about the kissing, okay?" Harry replied. "It was misguided and unfair. Neither of us was exactly in the position to be—"   
  
"You look terrible," Draco interrupted, moving close to Harry and inspecting him carefully from the bottom of the stairs. He was clean and well-rested, and it just made Harry feel even more dishevelled. "What happened to your cheek?"  
  
"Look, Draco, whatever it is you need, can it just wait until tomorrow?" Harry asked with gritted teeth. "I can't. I can't be… your friend, or whatever it is you… need from me. Not right now. Not with Ron. What did you say to him? Why do you have a healer on call?"   
  
"How am I supposed to be friends with you when you won't let me in," Draco asked seriously, ignoring Harry’s questions resolutely. He glared down at Harry for a moment without blinking. When he spoke again, the irritation was gone from his tone. Harry knew he wasn’t getting any answers, not today. Draco sounded weary all of a sudden, having reached some sort of ancient wisdom and clarity by glaring at Harry’s exhausted face. "Do you ever let _anyone_ help you, Potter?"   
  
Harry broke eye contact and looked at his feet, studying the scuffed edge of his trainer with the intensity of looking for a snitch. His cheeks were hot and his eyes were drawing steadily closer to damp. He clenched his teeth and refused to acknowledge Harry’s question.   
  
"I'll tell you a secret," Draco continued quietly, stepping closer and hooking a thumb beneath his chin to lift Harry’s face. The touch was gentle, startling, and Harry couldn't help but look at him suddenly, his blush intensifying. The gulp he took to steady his tears was uncomfortable in the awkward position Draco had chosen to keep his neck. "This whole ‘I've got this on my own' thing… It isn't cute. Not when you're standing there with a big bruise on your face."   
  
Harry shuddered slightly, heat blooming through his body from where Draco's hand held him steady, rushing from his neck to the tips of his toes. He stammered in reply.   
  
"What do you—I haven't—"   
  
"What's wrong with Ron," Draco interrupted boldly. Harry flinched.   
  
"That isn't the point,” he replied.   
  
"He  _hit_ you, Harry. Think it's sort of the point."   
  
"This one was just an accident," Harry murmured.   
  
" _This_ one?" Draco answered.   
  
"I’m fine, Draco. Leave it,” Harry grumbled.   
  
"Look," Draco said gently, offering a hand as he let go of Harry's face. "Just go get some sleep, Harry. Things never seem as dire after you've slept."   
  
His immediate reaction was to shout, yell, insult Malfoy—but the hand reaching down to him wasn't Malfoy. It was _Draco_ , and he was right. He took it cautiously and stood up, brushing himself off with one hand, letting the other linger in a warm, dry palm that didn’t flinch away. Draco’s breath came in calm, even huffs, and Harry unconsciously let it steady his own breathing, until he began to feel awkward about their closeness, their contact.   
  
"You should check in with Kingsley," Harry said eventually, pulling his hand away as delicately as he could. "He probably knows where the ring is. And Margaurite is a solicitor. Meant to tell you that before. She's looking into the house thing too. You should hear from her soon."   
  
"Really?" Draco said softly, taking a step back. The space between them seemed necessary, but nonetheless, it made Harry a bit sad. "Okay. Thank you."   
  
Harry nodded.   
  
"Hey, so I've been thinking," Draco said suddenly, changing abruptly into someone sunny and forced; Harry almost wanted to flinch away from that heavy brightness. It didn’t suit the situation, or even this new, happy version of Malfoy. The one was false and awkward, and though Draco seemed to realise it, he held steadfastly and continued.

"We should have lunch…" Draco concluded, quieter and less intense this time, though still determined. He crossed his arms and waited for a reply.   
  
"Lunch," Harry repeated.   
  
"Yeah," Draco said as he scrubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Why not? You... you seemed to enjoy tea at mine, and I thought maybe we could just… you know… keep talking."   
  
Harry thought about their living room kiss, the one that had righted his universe for a split second, and realised that if he was hoping to keep that shift for a little longer, he was going to need to open up and let him in. Lunch seemed like a fairly normal place to start.   
  
"Oh, why not," he answered finally.   
  
"Great. I'll see you tomorrow?" Draco asked, hope just at the edge of his voice and shuffling the exhaustion, anger, and sadness in Harry's chest slightly to the left until he felt just the faintest glimpse of warm possibility.


	15. Chapter 15

Part Three: Escape  
 _The Pyrenees, 2000_

  
‘Tomorrow' came in a fit of too many pain-killers and far too much water in the middle of the night. It arrived blazing and bright in an empty house where Harry didn't actually live, to a hollow memory of agreeing to lunch with someone he barely understood. He bolted awake in a panic to an insistent knock at half-three, having fallen back asleep on the sofa sometime that morning. He whipped the door open unthinkingly. He groaned when he found Draco, stylish and fit, in a blazer and soft grey trousers, his t-shirt a duck egg blue that perfectly highlighted the fact that his hair was nearly white.   
  
"Well, you're hardly in a position to have lunch," Draco judged with an easy grin.   
  
"It's three in the afternoon," Harry complained. "No one eats lunch at three in the afternoon."   
  
"I know, I got distracted," Draco admitted apologetically. "But it's good stuff I promise. I'd tell you about it if you were dressed."   
  
"Sorry," Harry replied, shrugging since he was not at all sorry for his holey white singlet and ratty shorts. He was rested and clean, and it didn’t really matter all that much to him that Draco had decided to be gorgeous on his porch; he’d get over it if he was honest. Embarrassment was for those with humility; he’d let go of that many years ago. He got a wry smile in reply, and stepped out onto the porch, returning the grin unwittingly. He wasn't happy, not really; nothing had changed from the night before, but Draco was standing here giving him permission to be lighter. He wanted desperately to take it.

"So,” he asked, letting his grin widen as he took in Draco’s giddy energy. “What distracted you?"   
  
Draco beamed. "Well, I got the chalet papers back this morning!  And found out that Father's ring is at the Ministry, safely stored in the dark magical artefacts lockers. Seems someone may have been concerned about curses. So I’ll get that back next week, too,” he concluded.     
  
Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his pyjamas and leant on the house. He was, quite genuinely, pleased. Draco needed to get himself back to a level of normalcy that no one would question. There was a spot in the back of his mind that questioned what it meant for  _him_ if Draco returned to ‘normal’, but he was also very groggy and a little bit broken. The news didn't quite filter through and it must have shown on his face. Draco's smile faltered for a moment until he cleared his throat.   
  
"I found out I've always owned the chalet, actually," Draco said proudly, just a hint of his posh coming to the surface. Harry would have teased him in a different moment. Now, he just made a soft sound of assent, and Draco pushed on. "It was my mother's, so it never transferred to my father’s holdings. I grew up there—you don't know that, do you? We lived there until I was six. I had tutors and things. I guess it's sort of like the family stomping grounds and—"   
  
He paused for a breath and looked at Harry, who waited patiently through the sudden pause. It might have been because he wasn’t really listening, but he murmured something that convinced Draco to go on, nonetheless.   
  
"Do you want to see it?" Draco continued in a rush of breath. He was suddenly bouncing from foot to foot, energy that immediately struck Harry as out of character, nervous. He replayed the last few sentences in his mind and found that he was lost.   
  
"Wait… what? What are you on about?" Harry asked, righting himself, genuinely confused.   
  
"Well, it's got a portkey station. We could go. Today. It's probably a bit of a mess—no one's been in months but—"   
  
Harry exhaled in a sigh. Surely Draco wasn't actually asking him to come to the _Pyrenees_. With him. On a _whim_. He decided to go with pleasant, jovial refusal rather than outright disbelief.

"Look,” he answered gently, “this isn't your fault but things are very messy just now. I can't really just be flying off to..."  
  
He froze mid-sentence and his knees grew weak.

The sun had shifted. It was a small thing, really, just a wash of afternoon warmth hitting Draco's face, but it was suddenly essential that Harry notice the things he’d been ignoring. First and foremost, noticing just how _attractive_ Draco was, even in an unbiased, genuine way. In this light, Harry realised how much weight he had put on. He was no longer like death warmed over. There was a kind, rosy hue to his complexion, and his eyes were full of laughter. His hair was shorter than Harry had ever seen it, but loose and shimmery in its silver blonde simplicity. He looked so _alive_. Harry had been forgiving himself his caring sentimental side toward Malfoy because he was able to reason that Draco needed him; he was just out of prison, lost in a world he didn’t understand. The kitchen floor? That had been an accidental moment of misplaced comfort. He’d just been trying to help a vulnerable man through a difficult time.

But Draco, _this_ Draco? He did not need Harry. At all. He had his wand back, he had his family back. His family holdings were firmly intact. Sure, he was still at his Muggle job and his understanding of the world wasn’t as simple as it had always been. But did that forgive him everything? Did that change anything? Harry had been too distracted by the reality of who they were to each other now to even ask.   
  
"What?" Draco prompted. He was alarmed, no doubt, at Harry's expression; if the outside matched how he felt inside, it must have been very frightening.   
  
"Do I look older?" Harry said suddenly. Draco laughed, stepping back to comically consider Harry as though from an artist's angle.   
  
"Definitely not a perfect specimen," he concluded with a hand on his hips. "There's a sour expression lurking beneath those sad, puppy dog eyes. One could almost call them... _melancholy_." Draco gasped in mock horror and Harry smirked half-heartedly, still reeling with questions.   
  
"Luckily enough," Draco continued. "There's a well-known cure for melancholy."   
  
"That so?" Harry asked softly.   
  
"Indeed,” he replied, grandly splaying a hand across his own chest. “ _Vacations_ with handsome blokes.” Harry hesitated to reply, and Draco let some of the doubt that had been there earlier back into his expression. “Come on, just come see it. We don't even have to stay long. I just want someone else to know it exists."   
  
"Plus you want to use magic," Harry joked, giving in with his tone before his brain quite caught up.   
  
"Well, I mean… obviously," Draco laughed. "So you'll come then? Tonight, five o'clock. Is this weird? This is probably weird… You can tell me, you didn't use to mind telling me off."   
  
"Honestly?" Harry conceded, looking back at the silence that awaited him inside. "I think I need to get the fuck out of this house."   
  
"Okay then. It's settled," Draco answered with a nod. "I promise you don't have to…"   
  
"What?" Harry pushed.   
  
"Never mind," Draco answered, shaking his head and running off down the walkway before Harry had a chance to push him more. There was a wistful sort of jolt to his step that made Harry smile. He came skidding back up the walk a moment later as Harry watched.

“What’s your favourite sweet?” he asked breathlessly.

Shocked, Harry blurted, “Pepper Imps?”   
  
Draco wrinkled his nose and positively giggled. "Really?" he asked cautiously. When Harry just nodded, he smiled and said, “Five, Potter. Don't be late."   
  
He flew up the last step and kissed Harry hastily, laughing again as he pulled back.   
  
"You should see your face," he called behind him as he tore back down the walk. "Relax. I promise not to murder you. Or destroy your reputation so that you are ruined before you ever marry. It's just a matter of perspective, Potter. Calm down. And pack a jumper!"

With that, he was gone. And Harry had less than two hours to prepare for a trip whose purpose he did not understand.   
  
He packed a rucksack and nothing more; he was afraid to let himself hope. It had, after all, been three days since their messy living room kiss. Who was to say _why_ Draco wanted him there? As far as he knew, he was still just Draco's weird-but-still-there almost-friend. After all, Draco had his real life back now, or at least the parts of it that mattered; Harry's position in it had never been more tenuous. Even when they had hated each other, he'd at least understood his place in the hierarchy of Malfoy.   
  
Now, he had no clue.   
  
He didn't tell Ginny, who was staying in the guest room of the house under the guise of ‘keeping an eye on the plants' but who was actually there to keep an eye on Ron, who’d arrived from the hospital at midnight, red-eyed and exhausted. He was sitting in the living room, and Harry clasped his shoulder fondly, but he barely noticed him when Harry left. The hinge on the door squeaked as it always did, but Ron didn't even lift his head from the Quidditch magazine he was glaring at but not reading. He was grateful; noticing would lead to questions, and he had no answers to any of them.


	16. Chapter 16

The Portkey office in Diagon was busy for a Wednesday and it took Harry a heart-pounding moment to find a towering blond head above the general chaos that erupted wherever wizards were gathered too closely together. He would never for the life of him understand why the British obsession with a solid queue hadn't translated into wizarding culture.  
  
When Draco noticed him, he smiled tentatively and gave a small wave. He was grateful that the happy, childish Draco from early appeared more subdued now. Harry didn't want to be the only one who was hesitant about this ludicrous plan.  
  
"I got us an appointment," Draco said when he had made his way over to where Harry was stood frozen by the door. "One can never predict the insanity of the General Portkey Office."  
  
Harry smiled shyly and nodded.  
  
"Where is this place again?" he asked, knowing the answer but needing something to say.  
  
"The French Pyrenees, on a very secret mountain that I can't possibly tell you the name of without security clearance," Draco teased. "It's the perfect spot to murder someone."  
  
Harry laughed, easing the smallest lump of tension from his shoulders as he did. "I knew it was the right decision to pack light,” he joked back. “Don't want anything weighing me down in my escape."  
  
"Please," Draco scoffed, a gentle crinkle in his eyes that brought lightness back to his face; he’d been worried too. "We both know _I_ would win if it came to that."  
  
Harry smiled again, and eased himself fully back to the present, putting worry away. He was here, and even though this plan was mental, he also knew who  _this_ Draco was. He could do this; this weird, flirty friendship… thing. He may even manage not to touch Draco if they remained like they were now; standing with this very safe and decorous distance between them the whole time. Harry would be proper and friend-like, help Draco remember what it was to use magic everyday, ease him back into daily life as a free man. That had, after all, been his assigned job. He could be that person.  
  
The Portkey—a dusty old kettle—was right on schedule. When they landed, Harry found his feet nestled in soft grass with nothing around as far as he could see, other than a large, modern chalet. The house stood on a gentle slope, a sleek wooden A-frame with more glass than Harry had ever seen on a single dwelling.  
  
"Oh, excellent!" Draco exclaimed. "We've managed to avoid the snow. Few more weeks and we'd be up to our calves right now."  
  
He turned to look at Harry and his face was transformed; open and carefree, lacking even the barest hint of a sneer or distrust, just excited, free, and ready to show off a place he loved. Harry beamed at the sight and Draco faltered. He stepped forward slowly, deliberately, and caught Harry by the t-shirt, pulling him forward with a slight stumble.

When he kissed Harry, it was slow and sighing, as though he was trying to convince himself that everything was still real. Since Harry knew the feeling well, he leaned into Draco's taller frame and wrapped his arms around him, holding them both securely and intentionally as the kiss morphed into something far more real than was prudent.  
  
Draco pulled back reluctantly and brushed the hair from Harry's forehead as he stepped back. "Shit," he murmured breathlessly. "Sorry. I'd sworn to myself I wouldn't do that."  
  
"I'm not exactly complaining," Harry huffed in reply.  
  
"Don't want you to feel like some sort of concubine," Draco teased, his fingers lingering on the shell of Harry's ear. "Come on, I'll show you the shack!"  
  
Draco sauntered up a short path to the large house, laughing. Harry followed quickly, his jaw dropping open as Draco unlocked the door; he hoped that ‘the shack' was a crude nickname because the vast, open-concept of the house took his breath away.

Everything was warm wood starkly contrasted by sleek, white furniture. Nordic and clean, with a winding staircase to one side that led to what must be an open bedroom space, judging from what Harry could see between the rails upstairs. Antique country cabinets in a small but friendly kitchen, a fireplace nearly twice Harry's height filling the living room wall. Draco lit it immediately, and Harry shivered, relishing in the instant dispelling of the mountain chill. Draco turned and smiled at Harry sheepishly.  
  
"Your mother hates this place, right?" Harry asked in awe. Draco nodded. Harry shook his head. "Why? _How_ ?"  
  
"It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you it sometime. Not today,” Draco laughed. “Okay, so the bedroom, upstairs. You can sleep there, I'll take the couch."  
  
"Draco, there's no need to… you can sleep in your own bedroom, I'll be perfectly fine down here," Harry mumbled, blushing as his brain supplied him with far more perfect sleeping arrangements, images that four kisses certainly did not warrant. Even if they were suddenly in an isolated mountain house with no one to remark on their lack of suitability, the complexity of their relationship, the impropriety of them being together. Draco's brain seemed to have wandered as well because he suddenly cleared his throat.  
  
"Perhaps we can sort that out later. Are you hungry?"  
  
"Usually," Harry said sheepishly, shrugging as he put his rucksack on the floor beside a table.  
  
Draco grinned and toed off his shoes, gesturing for Harry to follow him.  
  
With very little effort, Draco proceeded to create a delicious meal of fish and vegetables, fresh bread spread thickly with butter, and delicious blackberry cordial to wash it all down; he floated around the kitchen like he was born to cook, pulling ingredients from places that should not have had fresh food. When he questioned it, Draco shrugged and murmured something about old magic houses and easy-to-command Manor elves, and seemed embarrassed enough by the sentence that Harry dropped it.  
  
The sunset came slowly in the late fall afternoon. It shadowed the kitchen first, disappearing from the plain-framed window in subtle oranges and pinks. By the time it dipped past the last of the mountain peaks in the living room window, which stretched the entire two-story wall, Harry was full, warm, and cautiously comfortable. They sat at the table still, washed in a calm silence that nicely accompanied the wine they had switched to. At some point, Draco had quietly lit lamps on the wall, and the fire glow was gentle and welcoming.  
  
"No electricity," Draco mused with a shrug when he noticed Harry studying them, bemused. "Never thought that would be something I would have even _noticed_ , let alone something that bothers me. How my life has changed."  
  
Harry watched him for a moment longer, hesitant to reply. Giving up, he instead stood, piling dishes into the sink and turning on the water to avoid Draco’s intense gaze.  
  
"Let me," Draco said softly, pulling out his wand and setting a sponge to clean the dishes, offering Harry his glass and smiling as he took it. "I actually quite like dishes, but we're in the mountains. Something about work up here seems unnecessary."  
  
He wandered out of the kitchen and settled into a large, grey chair near the fire. Harry followed suit and stretched out long on the answering sofa, sighing in his fullness and fixing his eyes on the fire's glowing light.  
  
"You stopped yourself from saying something just before," Draco said gently, "and you've been quiet ever since. You really don't need to do that, you know. Keep things from me? Bite your tongue? We've been through enough that I think we owe each other the truth. What were you going to say?"  
  
Harry turned and found that Draco was resolutely staring at the fire as he spoke; the discomfort in his posture eased Harry’s mind. He watched the side of his head for a moment, and let the sensation of looking at Draco Malfoy wash over him for a moment.

"I'm afraid of trusting you," he blurted.  
  
"Well," Draco replied, not missing a beat. "That's sensible."  
  
"Sorry?" Harry blustered.  
  
"Well, yeah," Draco laughed. "I've never really given you a reason to trust me, have I?"  
  
"I'm trying," Harry shrugged.  
  
"I know," Draco smiled, finally turning to look at him. "I appreciate it. I am too if that makes a difference. Roger…”  
  
“Was he angry?” Harry pushed. “He can’t have been expecting it.”  
  
“It wasn’t because of you,” Draco insisted, making Harry laugh. “What? It wasn’t. How was I going to explain my sudden disappearances all the time? He was hardly statute-of-secrecy material.”  
  
“Poor Roger,” Harry smiled. “I liked him.”  
  
“He was perfectly lovely, but not enough bite to him. It would never have lasted,” Draco mused. “I’m too mean.”  
  
Harry reached out and refilled both their glasses, letting the subject drop into the silence of the room. Through the large windows, stars had appeared in a cloudless sky. The moon must have been on the other side of the house. The flickering fireplace bled into the glass-framed night, and the sight was mesmerising. He watched both sets of light twinkle and settled his feet beneath him, content not to move again.  
  
“I can’t… I can't repay you,” Draco murmured suddenly.  
  
Harry looked at him sharply. "You don't need to try, you idiot. I didn't do anything for you.”  
  
Draco looked at him incredulously, and he amended. “Well,” Harry amended. “Not just for you."  
  
"Pansy said she would never be able to show her face again, if people found out," Draco teased, sipping his wine and setting it on the table beside him. "I told her you weren't exactly the type to go shouting your business from the rooftops."  
  
"True," Harry agreed. “Though I’m glad you’ve figured that out. You never used to think so.”  
  
Draco grinned, ignoring the comment as he continued, "Then I told her that I planned on kissing you many, many more times."  
  
Harry sputtered, choking on his drink.  
  
"Yes, she reacted in much the same way," Draco said. "But you know what? I just don't care. I think maybe it was Azkaban, those walls I built myself. I'm done. I don't care what they think. What _you_ think. And that's helped significantly, with everything. You should try it."  
  
"I'm not worried about what they think," Harry whispered. "I'm worried about who I might become."  
  
"And what is that?" Draco asked.  
  
"No idea."  
  
"Problematic."  
  
"Understatement," Harry laughed. "Draco, that food was incredible. Thank you. Did you… I really think you should sleep upstairs. I'll be fine on the sofa."  
  
"Bored of my company already?" Draco teased. Harry squirmed uncomfortably. "No, just kidding, Harry. You must be exhausted. It's been quite the ridiculous few days. Here, move your foot."  
  
Harry did as he was asked and Draco poked a spot on the arm of the sofa with his wand. It spun and shivered, and suddenly, popped into a large, very comfortable bed. Draco stood and brought blankets from a cupboard in the corner and took Harry's glass from his hand.  
  
"The bathroom is just through there," he gestured, speaking softly. "There are toiletries under the sink if you need anything. You can put the fire out if you want, but it's safe to burn all night. We can go for a bit of a hike tomorrow if you want? It's quite gorgeous."  
  
Harry nodded and inhaled to speak, pausing at the last second.  
  
"What? What is it?" Draco pushed.  
  
"Why did you ask me to come?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Everyone else has been here. You like the outside. I couldn't exactly bring people from work…"  
  
"So you don't know either," Harry concluded.  
  
"Haven't the slightest."  
  
"Good," Harry nodded. "And... thanks."  
  
Draco smiled. "Night Harry."  
  
"Night."


	17. Chapter 17

The morning brought a chill to the air that Harry hadn't anticipated. They stepped out of the cabin for their promised hike, armed with granola that Draco had made at an ungodly hour, filling the house with the smell of roasting almonds and cranberries, and waking Harry in the most pleasant way he'd ever been woken before. After a breakfast of coffee and berries, there was nothing left to do but stare at each other uncomfortably, until Harry had blurted something about ‘taking in the sights' like a right idiot. Now, he was standing on a mountain, wearing a jumper and borrowed shoes, and wishing that instead he'd just dragged Draco down onto his converted sofa and dealt with the discomfort immediately.

This whole ‘hill-walking' thing was torture. Draco was confident and familiar with his surroundings, looking more rugged than Harry had ever seen him. He would have been better suited standing next to Charlie Weasley at this moment, and Harry was having a hard time concentrating on his foothold as he contemplated a time in Draco's life when he would have been comfortable in nature. He only knew the Draco who slicked back his hair and straightened his cuffs, who tied his school tie with a full Windsor and who bemoaned the rain for it would mess up his aesthetic. This was hardly an image that aligned with the image of Draco in the mountains.

When Harry tried to picture the rambling child who scrambled up rock crofts and scraped his knees, his brain came up short and he faltered. He'd already tripped twice by the time Draco had laughed and taken pity on him, stopping to rest on a rock. He offered a hand down to Harry, who took it begrudgingly and hoisted himself up, even as Draco shifted his hair back into place and opened his pack with the other.

He offered Harry a snack, but Harry pounced instead; he was hopelessly turned on by the relaxed Draco and his easy going nature. The mountain air was crisp and bright, and he couldn't help himself as he pushed Draco back onto the rock and caught his hands beneath the hem of his shirt, eliciting a short-breathed laugh that went straight to the back of Harry's skull.

"How dare you," Harry said, grinning down at him and running his hands over Draco's stomach and chest. "How dare you secretly be an _outside_ person. You’re too bloody hot for your own good."

"Fortunately," Draco answered, hands roaming across the back of Harry's jeans and pulling him closer. "It is limited to being here. You'll be safe in London."

"Not sure I'll ever be ‘safe’ again, knowing you know how to make granola from scratch."

A pained grimace crossed Draco’s face and Harry hesitated. "Sorry," he apologised. "I'm only kidding, I'm quite content to eat granola with you."

Draco laughed. "No, no. Sorry. It's just... the only thing my father ever made with his own hands. Apparently, my mother taught him the first time they ever came here. I've never been able to get it quite right."

"Do you…" He trailed off and went back to running his hands on the small patch of skin he’d released from Draco’s jumper.

"Harry, say the thing,” Draco prodded.

"Nah, the thing was dumb. You miss him, of course you do."

Draco smiled and pulled the string on Harry's jumper with both hands, unexpectedly dragging him down to his elbows.

"You talk too much," he said, kissing Harry firmly and muttering an adorable squeak as he did. Harry gave up on holding himself up, letting the full weight of his body collapse onto Draco and getting his hands back beneath his shirt.

"I know we're pretty isolated up here," Draco teased breathlessly a moment later, "but it's still possible we should stop before we start breaking public decency laws."

"You're annoyingly good at that," Harry huffed, dropping his head to Draco's shoulder and exhaling as his body sagged in languid, happy pleasure.

"Good at what?"

"At stopping me just when things get interesting."

Draco laughed, light and embarrassed, making Harry blush. "I just don't want—"

He stopped abruptly and Harry sat up. "What?" he asked, alarmed. "Don't want what?" He was pretty sure this was the moment he'd been waiting for since the kitchen floor; the point where Draco was going to tell him exactly how little they had in common, how stupid it would be for them to go any further.

"I don't want the first time I sleep with you to be meaningless," Draco breathed.

Harry froze halfway through retreating.

"Draco," he sighed. "How could _anything_ between _us_ be meaningless." He pulled Draco up by the hand and put a quelling hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let‘s keep going. You promised me wildlife."

They took a lazy path back to the house, with Harry getting regularly distracted by the view from the side of the mountain; by Draco taking them on side trails that led them in and out of scraggly brush and near startled chamois who would immediately leap away with angry bleats that always made Draco laugh like a small child. Every once in a while, their meandering would slow, and Draco's hand would slide easily into Harry's. It made Harry pause and blush every time, but Draco seemed determined to make it the most natural thing in the world.

"Ron's an alcoholic," Harry said suddenly, the fourth or fifth time he'd done it.

“Yeah,” Draco replied gently, squeezing Harry’s hand. “He might’ve explained.”

“I haven’t been a great friend to him this year,” Harry continued.

“You can’t actually save _everyone_ , you know,” Draco admonished, staring at the open space and letting Harry hide his emotions. He was grateful.

“Saved you,” Harry teased.

“Psh,” Draco scoffed. “Saved myself.”

“Well,” Harry replied, leaning on Draco’s arm. “Yeah, guess you did. Do you think you could… you know. Go out with me?”

“What?” Draco asked with a laugh. “Is that how you’re asking me then?”

“You need me to ask you?”

“Merlin, Potter. No wonder you haven’t been that successful with the whole ‘dating’ thing,” Draco laughed, letting go of Harry’s hand and smacking him lightly on the head. “Attack kissing someone is not how you ask them out.”

Harry thought about the past few months of his life; he considered his few club nights, his one disaster of a date with Gabe, his one relationship after Ginny. And he started to laugh.

"Yeah, alright," he conceded. "Draco. Would you go out with me? Properly?"

"Nah," Draco replied, walking away before Harry could react.

“What?!” Potter shouted after him. Draco just laughed, moving like a mountain goat down the steep path until Harry had to run to catch up.

“Draco!” Harry said when he was near enough again. “What the hell?”

“Well, I mean,” Draco said reasonably, “let’s consider, shall we? You and I, we’re childhood rivals. I know how to insult every one of your friends. You were held captive in my home during a _war_ we both fought in. Then, you came to exonerate my name. By visiting me in _prison_. Where I told you most of my life story. You want to what… have coffee? Ask me how many _siblings_ I have?”

Harry opened his mouth to reply but, in the typical way he’d been dealing with Draco for the past seven months, he found he was quite at a loss for words to respond.

“Exactly,” Draco gloated. “So no. I won’t go out with you. I will, however, take you back to my secretive ski chalet and show you just how grateful I am for your help this past year.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he made a sound in his throat that he’d never heard from his own mouth before; he couldn’t help it. The visual Malfoy was providing was a little too perfect.

“Goodness,” Draco laughed. “I don’t think it will ever stop being fun seeing you dumbfounded. I really wish I’d sorted that out in school. I wasted all that time trying to make you angry. This is way more fun.”

Harry gaped at him, his brain reeling with image after image of learning what the feel of Draco’s chest looked like; his hands had explored the flat plane earlier, running up against the crosshatch of scars, only some whose origins Harry knew. He needed more information, needed to know what it all looked like up close. He watched as Draco cackled at him, and for a split second, he was annoyed. Then, the words filtered through his head, and his face flushed anew. Rather than respond, he closed the gap between them clumsily and found himself kissing Draco once again, effectively silencing the chuckle on his lips. He pulled back and laughed at himself.

“See, personally,” Harry teased, “I kinda wish we’d figured _that_ out in school, but whatever floats your boat, I guess.”

He sauntered away, heedless of the fact that he didn’t know where he was going, in favour of leaving Draco speechlessly behind him.


	18. Chapter 18

When they finally made it back to the house, Harry discovered that he was exhausted and starving. Draco sent him to get cleaned up while he fiddled mysteriously at the hob.

Inside the bathroom, Harry ducked into his rucksack to grab his last change of clothes. His hand brushed against the envelope from Kingsley, the one he had completely forgotten; it had somehow slipped his mind over the course of the day that his entire life was up in the air, that back home, everything had—once again—fallen completely apart.

Already shirtless and shivering slightly from being underdressed, Harry perched on the edge of the impossibly large tub and pulled the parchment from its envelope. The sun was dipping low in the late fall afternoon, and the lightness that he had collected over an entire day of gentle ribbing and soft touches fled him all in an instant. He sighed heavily as he read words he didn't want to dwell on.

 _Make use of your newly acquired skills,_ Kingsley had written. _Benefit of your good name. Reputation of being forceful but fair._

There were parts of the letter that did intrigue him, though. The promise of continued autonomy with MACUSA. The idea of a fresh start. The ability to postpone sorting out his life. The fact that maybe, just _maybe_ , he was actually creating something important here. That he was a part of the solution to a world no longer being touched by Voldemort.

He looked up from the parchment and caught his own eye in the mirror; regardless of what Draco had tried to convince him, he did look older. His eyes were sunken and his chest felt smaller. The scars that swirled up and down his shoulders were brighter than before, and he was none too pleased with the overall image.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice called from outside the door. “There’s paella. Did you drown? You’ve been in here for nearly an—”

Whatever decision had led to Draco pushing open the door had not given Harry time to prepare. The parchment was still in his hands, his chest still bare, and unfortunately, his eyes were still pretty obviously damp with the tears he’d been trying to keep buried inside.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked dejectedly. “Bad news?”

He looked pointedly at the letter in Harry’s hands, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to explain. He just handed it over. As Draco read, he shifted uncomfortably on the cold ceramic edge of the tub, awaiting a reply.

“Is this what you meant? About how things were a mess?” Draco asked quietly a moment later. “You should have said something. We can go back?”

“No,” Harry said quickly, blushing furiously. “No. This is… this is what I needed.”

“Maybe,” Draco shrugged. “But Kingsley is going to expect an answer sooner or later… Seems rather keen to get going on this.”

Harry looked at Draco, who studied him for a moment in return. Draco eventually nodded shortly.

“Right, budge over,” he said firmly.

Confused, Harry shifted his body over on the tub edge, inhaled quietly when Draco sat heavily beside him and pulled out his wand. With a wicked grin, Draco turned on the tap behind Harry’s back, tapped it once with his wand, and sat calmly as the room filled with a subtle woodsy, vanilla-scented steam.

He smiled when Harry turned to him, confused. “Cedarwood for stress and vanilla for mood,” he explained with a shrug. “There’s a towel in the cupboard there. Take a bath. Relax. Forget about all of it for a minute, okay? The Ministry. Ron and Hermione. Me.”

He turned to look at the tub, full of steaming water already thanks to the magical push, and turned off the tub. Standing, and gripping Kingsley's letter, he smiled once more at Harry.

“You really need some help, Potter. You have no idea how to ignore all your problems under the guise of self-care,” he teased. “You should take some advice from the Pureblood for a while, okay?”

He started to leave the bathroom and before Harry could question the insanity of what he was about to ask, he had murmured a single word.

"Stay."

Draco froze mid-stride; he had frozen in Harry's presence many times before. Harry wasn't actually sure he had ever given anyone else reason to pause and consider his words before he acted further. True, more often than not Draco had been considering whether or not to _hex_ Harry, but now, with his face turned away and the ludicrous request at hand, the stakes were much higher.

“What?” Draco asked softly, not facing Harry, his head tilted to one side.

His blonde hair had gone even closer to white in the summer sun over the past few months, and the back of his neck was tanned despite many hours at the bookstore. Harry hadn’t had to consider the back of his head in many, many years. He wasn’t sure having to do it now was a good thing.

“Stay,” Harry repeated, barely above a whisper. “Please?”

Draco finally turned around and his face had gone a lovely shade of pink, one Harry was instantly addicted to. He studied Harry as though he was looking for the joke, trying to find the moment that would prove the whole thing an elaborate prank to fool him.

Harry stood up off the side of the tub; slowly, carefully, with as much intention and as little shaking as he could manage, he removed the rest of his clothes, looking brazenly at Draco the entire time. He turned to step into the tub behind him, pausing only a moment to adjust to the heat before sinking gratefully into the silken water. Draco watched him with unmasked lust, impossible amounts of interest, and just the briefest hint of hesitation.

“Draco,” Harry said, still facing him from the chest-deep water. “Just stay.”

Finally, in one painfully slow movement, Draco stepped back toward the bath; it was just one step, one footprint retracing his retreat from the door, but Harry exhaled in relief all the same. The long-fingered hand that reached for the hem of his jumper hesitated a moment.

"Why?" Draco asked eventually.

"How can I take the advice of a Pureblood, if my Pureblood keeps running away every time things get interesting?"

Draco exhaled in a huff, but there was a smile on his face.

"It's been years, since I… with a wizard and," he explained quietly, looking at the floor even though his hand still rested on the hem of his shirt. "Wait… _your_ Pureblood? I don't know about that, Potter."

"Just shut up, Malfoy, and get your arse in this tub before I'm forced to embarrass both of us and drag you in myself." Harry grinned in a way that he hoped looked wicked and sexy but suspected instead just revealed his fear. There were lines you could not uncross. Asking Malfoy to join him, naked, in a tub? That was definitely one.

All his embarrassment and objection fled, however, the second Draco decided to brave the situation and remove his jumper and shirt together in one swift movement.

He was skinny, true, but beneath the lean muscles that were beginning to ripple on his stomach and chest, Draco was pure Greek-carved adonis; he looked like a tower carved from the finest of marble, as though the universe had always intended for him to be admired. There were sharp curves and edges to every limb of his body, and Harry needed more. The jagged lines of the scar he'd been exploring earlier with his hands did not detract at all. They added interest to the pale planes of skin, and Harry reached forward before he realised what he was doing. Fortunately, Draco interpreted the motion as an invitation and chuckled.

“Impatient,” he breathed, reaching to unbutton his own trousers. “Can you…”

Harry smiled at him and rested on his folded arms on the side of the tub. “You’re beautiful. I will close my eyes so you don’t run away on me again, but you are absolutely bloody beautiful, and I refuse to let you believe anything else.”

True to his words, Harry closed his eyes lightly, inhaling the scent of the steamed air around him and instantly feeling his muscles relax even further. He remained in his resting posture even as he felt the water ripple and rise, even as long, smooth legs descended into the water and settled seamlessly next to his.

“Are you decent?” Harry teased, lifting his head with his eyes comically squeezed shut.

“Shut up, arse,” Draco laughed, splashing him lightly. Harry opened his eyes and was far closer to Draco than he’d imagined; his face was less than a foot away. Even though he’d lost count of how many times he’d been close enough to Draco to kiss him, the proximity now left him breathless again. 

 

Above the line of water, Draco had pale pink nipples that were pert and inviting, gooseflesh where they sat out of reach of the soothing water. Draco’s shoulders, shivering slightly as he adjusted to the water, were slender but curved in a way that made Harry want to rest against them for hours. His collar bones begged to be kissed, and every curved line that Harry assessed dragged him deeper into the life he was suddenly living.

“You too,” Draco whispered, watching as Harry’s eyes flitted and drank in as much as they could. The whole thing still felt tenuous. At any moment, he expected Draco to disappear. “Relax,” Draco smiled, reading his mind. “I’m here now. You promised you’d relax.”

“I don’t remember ever agreeing to anything of the sort,” Harry smirked. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to relax, not now, with Draco’s foot innocently resting against his hip bone, the gentle wave of the water intermittently revealing his navel and covering it again.

Yet despite his concerns, Draco leaned back in the water, resting his head on the edge and closing his eyes. Harry watched him before being lulled into the calm of the warmth and the scent and the _Draco_.

“Nothing seems as complicated in the bath,” Draco murmured.

“I thought that was after some rest.”

“Same idea,” Draco confirmed, poking Harry with his toes in retaliation for his insolence. “Hush. You’re ruining my bath.”

“This is _my_ bath,” Harry giggled, nonetheless leaning back and closing his eyes gently.

They sat in this comfortable silence for a long time. The water never seemed to get colder or lose its effervescent scent. Harry assumed magic was involved, but he tried not to overthink it.

Since he knew they had been headed there since he’d asked Draco to stay, the solid weight of Draco’s foot shifting away from the outside of his leg and stroking down until it was nestled against Harry’s cock should not have come as a surprise. He honestly hadn’t noticed himself get hard; he’d been so focused on other sensations. The cold from the air in the bathroom, the smell of the oils, the smooth wave of the water.

Of course, once Draco's foot found its target, Harry couldn't believe that he'd been unaware of how turned on he was. The delicate pressure of Draco's toes under the water made him inhale in a soft groan. It was an excellent sensation. There was a momentary look of questioning need on Draco's face before Harry grinned and his expression softened.

Harry was afraid to speak. Sound, he was sure, would collapse the moment. Make Draco realise what - and who - he was doing, and he would leap from the tub like a man on fire. Instead, Harry reached into the water, gripped Draco's ankle lightly and thrust his hips gently against the soul of his foot. When Draco's mouth fell open, Harry's smiled deepened, and Draco looked away, blushing.

Distressed, Harry reached out to pull him forward, forgetting that the shirt he was accustomed to gripping for this task was currently unavailable. Instead, his fist curled against light blonde chest hair, his fingernails scraping gently at skin and making Draco hiss. Harry gave a frustrated huff that he hadn't intended to be external and Draco's eyes snapped back to his, full-force and gleaming. He wanted this as much as Harry, but something was holding him back.

“Been waiting a very, very long time,” Draco whispered. “You’re going to need to be patient.”

He didn't give Harry time to reply. He swiftly and deftly shifted his body in the bath, it's ample size challenged by the sudden movement and sloshing water to the floor. Ignoring it, Draco slowly manoeuvred himself across the tub until he was carefully straddling Harry's hips. There should not have been room, but there was, and frankly, Harry was hardly about to complain. Not when the change in position had put Draco's slick chest against his own, his thighs firmly grinding, and—perhaps most importantly—cock against cock. Harry had been against another cock more than once now, but it never stopped being a surprise. The sheer lust-filled power that came from causing so much pleasure in another person's face just by existing, by being in close proximity.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, leaning in to pull Harry’s ear into his mouth.

“This is what you had planned?” Harry huffed. “This is why I couldn’t bring you off on that rock? So you could grind against me in the bath instead?”

“God, you are insufferable, you know,” Draco growled, shuffling against Harry again despite the tone. “You know that right?”

“You know, Mr Malfoy, you seem to have placed yourself on top of me," Harry teased instead of replying. He was really only joking, since he was entirely fine shifting and moving against the swell of Draco on top of him until he came, possibly several hours from now. His hips were still rolling gently, completely out of his control, and some time ago, he'd lost the ability to inhale deeply. The shallow huff of his breath was only barely giving him enough oxygen.

Draco, however, blushed scarlet, pressing himself firmly onto Harry and nodding. “Oh, I know,” he replied, reaching for Harry’s hands and pulling them from their death grip to the side of the tub, lingering with them in his own for a moment, reaching forward to gently kiss Harry while he intertwined their fingers. It was intimate and gentle, and other things that Harry did not associate with Draco.

It broke him.

He would have remained in the blissful freeze of this kiss had Draco not decided to move their hands to his own arse, pressing them firmly there and kissing Harry once more.

“I meant it though,” he murmured against Harry’s lips. “Take your time.”

The invitation filtered slowly through Harry as he continued to kiss Draco; what it meant, who this was. Where they were going to end up.

“You’re sure,” he finally whispered, his fingers already gripping harder, massaging, pulling because they knew what they wanted.

“Please,” Draco said, sliding forward until his cock had rolled fully up Harry’s and both of them were groaning.

“Stop or we’ll never get there,” Harry chuckled, pulling back. “Not to say that I don’t… you know, definitely want this? But, I mean… I think…”

“Harry, you are allowed to tell me what you want here,” Draco grinned, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and pulling him close. “I’m not actually as selfish as you’ve always pretended.”

Harry laughed and started to stand up, shocking Draco as they both slid a little.

“No bath,” Harry said gruffly, as Draco’s slippery form pulled against his in a harsh grind.

Draco took control and pulled Harry by the hand out of the bath. He Apparated them both straight upstairs, dripping all over the undoubtedly priceless carpet. Draco latched onto Harry’s mouth with a moan. “Forgot what that felt like,” he mumbled, grinding down slowly and making Harry moan.

“What felt like?” Harry half asked.

“Apparating.”

Harry didn’t respond, instead pulled them both backwards until he landed messily on the bed, chuckling as Draco’s very wet body fell heavily onto his and making a filthy slapping sound that seemed out of place so early in the game. He’d had a plan for how to proceed when he’d asked for the location change, but he couldn’t figure out what it had been, now that all of Draco was accessible; he couldn’t stop grasping for new parts of skin, new areas to massage and scrape and _notice_.

He eventually found Draco’s arse cheeks again, pulled them tight to his own body and let the friction it created wash over them both for a moment. Harry had forgotten how breathing worked, since most of his air was now being spent in an unsettlingly long kiss that he refused to break from. When his hands grazed against the long, jagged scar, however, he paused.

“Yeah, it’s a scar. I was in a war,” Draco teased, smoothing Harry’s curls away from his face and pulling off his glasses. He chuckled. “Have a few. Should I have warned you?”

“God, you’re perfect,” Harry breathed, immediately embarrassing himself. He’d have to pay for that comment at some point, he was sure.

Draco merely smiled. “Indeed. Now get on with it, would you? I’ve half a mind to take back my bottom offer.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Harry growled, sitting them up and attacking Draco’s mouth again. “Do you...do you have anything? My wand is–”

“Fucking, _no_ , Potter.” Draco pulled his hands from Harry’s hair and grabbed his chin, holding it firmly. “Promise me, right here, right now, that you will never, _ever_ use conjured lube on another human being. Ever again.”

Harry laughed, but truthfully, Draco’s cock had shifted so that the hardness was back against his own, and now, Harry could _see_ it; at this point, he’d have agreed to name his firstborn after Aragog in order to just keep things moving. He nodded fervently, and Draco leant them back on the bed, rolling against Harry as he reached above them to a drawer in the headboard that Harry would never have noticed on his own. Suddenly, a condom and a tube of very expensive looking cherry lube landed on his chest, and Harry smiled.

“Cherry? Really?”

“Shut it,” Draco hissed, latching onto Harry’s neck and dropping another package beside them on the bed. “I like my arse to smell like candy. If you are claiming you have a problem with that, you are a fucking liar.”

“Well,” Harry murmured, failing at a comeback as he leaned into Draco’s sucking. He gave up and uncapped the tube, admitting immediately to himself that he had no problem with cherries. As the smell wafted between them, Draco’s mouth wandered off Harry’s neck. His rocking was growing more insistent.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warned, pulling Draco’s hips back. “You may not come before I even get a hand on you.”

“Would be a waste of that beautiful bath if I did,” Draco agreed, “But get _going_.”

“Now who’s impatient,” Harry chuffed, while at the same time reaching a lubed hand down to massage Draco’s arse.

The first finger seemed utterly useless; Draco’s rhythm barely changed and Harry clenched his teeth as a sudden wave of jealousy washed over him; it hadn’t been that long, he remembered, since Roger. Harry didn’t share well. He let his jealousy fuel a second finger, and shortly thereafter, a third. Finally, Draco was rocking back, caring more about directing Harry’s fingers to the spot in his arse that Harry was desperately trying to avoid.

“Harry,” Draco groaned, gripping him by the shoulders.

They were still sitting the way they’d been sitting in the tub, with Draco straddling Harry’s waist. The difference was that there was so much more _room_ on this gorgeous bed. Harry pulled the condom roughly down on his cock with his free hand, then went to move them into a more comfortable position.

“No,” Draco protested, pulling the lube from where it lay on the bed. “Let me.” His hands shook and he was still rocking against Harry’s fingers in his arse, but Draco managed to get a solid amount of the cherry goo on Harry’s cock, making him buck up and unsettling his own hand.

“Don’t you dare get any of that on this duvet,” Draco warned, reaching behind him to pull at Harry’s hand until he was free and keening at the loss. He didn’t stay that way for long; without warning, Draco settled himself carefully down, taking all of Harry into his arse with an exhale and a painful clench on Harry’s shoulders. His own hands hit the bed forcefully as he was engulfed in the tight muscle. He hoped against hope that Draco would move soon, or he might come from sheer tension alone.

“For Merlin's sake, Harry,” Draco moaned. “You have no business being the _perfect_ fucking size.” Before Harry could reply, Draco was kissing him again, rolling his hips and dragging Harry along for the ride. When Draco pushed him back until his head hit the mattress, he was momentarily sad that the new position meant he lost Draco’s mouth; sad, until the angle change made Draco shout, and the sound made him lose the ability to focus on anything except meeting each of Draco’s thrusts. He let his eyes drift close instead.

“Fuck,” Draco hissed, right before coming in a messy stream. He didn’t look, but Harry imagined there was little control involved, given the way he was being gripped and shifted. Draco may have been worried about the lube, but Harry was pretty sure come didn’t come out of fabric any easier. He laughed at the thought and if he had been able to, he might have been worried that Draco would take the giggle the wrong way. As it was, he could barely focus on opening his eyes to watch as the last of Draco’s orgasm wrenched through his body. Harry found Draco’s gaze, and with an intensity reserved for a man on a mission, Draco rolled his hips hard a few times before dragging Harry along with him.

He grabbed at the bed as he came, his fingers tearing the duvet up around them, his heels hitting the edge of the bed as he arched upwards. As Draco pulled almost all the way off, the mattress dipped, and a wrinkle of plastic hit Harry in the hip. When he came down from his high, he reached for the sound and pulled up a bag of sweets. “Pepper Imps,” Draco murmured by way of explanation, collapsing heavily on top of Harry, spent, out of breath, and completely dishevelled.

Harry had never laughed so hard in his life.

* * *

 Time ticked by them slowly, quartered out by the slow slice of the large clock that hung above the mantle downstairs, just barely visible above the railing that set the bedroom area apart. It was cold up here, Harry noted. He’d have stoked the fire higher had he known they’d be up here this long; he nestled further beneath the covers instead, snuggling down and unintentionally drawing Draco even closer.

Not that Draco seemed to mind. He sighed happily and draped himself across Harry’s chest, his breathing slowing and evening out, turning into a gentle rhythm that Harry wasn’t even aware was soothing him. He decided Draco must have been asleep, but he didn’t stop lightly stroking fingers through his hair, didn’t stop nuzzling his foot up against his leg.

“Do you ever have good dreams?” Malfoy asked suddenly at his side, startling Harry slightly. He glanced down at Draco as he thought about the question a moment and shook his head.

“Not really,” Harry replied, smirking sheepishly and reaching back to continue playing with Draco's hair. He couldn't help himself; it was soft and pliant, and Draco's face fell into a zen-like trance every time he touched it. He threaded it through his fingers slowly as he considered.

“I used to have dreams that I'd slept through whole Quidditch matches," he remembered with a grin. “As though Wood would ever have allowed that. Honestly.”

Draco snorted, his eyes closed.

“Do you?” Harry asked.

Against his chest, Draco gave a short shake of his head. “Nope. Not in years.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I guess we kinda got screwed over in that department, didn't we?”

“Mm,” Draco agreed, stilling again.

“Draco?” Harry began.

“Hmm?”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Draco replied softly. “I thought I’d told you… I have to go back to London for a shift tomorrow.”

“Not what I meant, but that’s fine,” Harry conceded.

“What do you mean, then?” Draco said, moving his head to look up at Harry’s chin.

“I mean… what happens when we get back. To London.”

“I dunno,” Draco admitted, clinging closer still to Harry and tucking himself into the last available space.

The conversation felt closed, but Harry had a slight panic rise in his chest. It was so difficult, being near Draco Malfoy; he was starting to realise it might _always_ be difficult. Draco was never going to make things easy. He wasn’t trusting, but he was fiercely protective. It was a confusing combination to Harry, who trusted too hard and too fast. He didn’t know what Draco needed from him half the time. He might never understand their constantly blending boundary lines and expectations, and it was possible they would always end up in moments of argument stemming from insecurity. Was that pain worth it, for this? For the moments when Draco was pressed close into his side, a soft, mailable thing that made absolute and perfect sense?

“They’ll… they’ll all hate it,” Harry whispered, considering everything that lay before him and speaking his deepest fear into the dim light.

“Yeah,” Draco murmured. “They definitely will.”

Harry was drifting, almost asleep, when Draco cleared his throat suddenly and made him jump again. He needed a signal or something, a sign to know when Malfoy had actually gone to sleep.

“You should take it,” he said firmly.

“I should take it?” Harry asked groggily, trying to catch up but lost completely.

“The job,” Draco clarified. “You’re always whining about how you don’t know what it is you’re meant to be doing,”

Harry bristled. He didn’t think he whined about not having a job _that_ often.

“So I should take this job,” he mused. “With MACUSA. In Boston. In _America_.”

“I mean, don’t you want to?” Draco asked, genuinely curious.

“I… I guess, a little," Harry replied.

“Then you should,” Draco finished simply.

Harry sighed and dragged himself out from underneath Draco’s body.

“Where’re you going?” Draco protested, reaching out to take Harry’s arm.

“Boston, apparently," Harry snarled, pulling himself out of bed, heedless of the death grip on his forearm.

“Or for the love of—Harry, listen," Draco whined. "This was bound to happen. Possibly inevitable. The sex was good, but. I mean. Your friends are your family, and they are absolutely going to have words if you decide to take Draco Malfoy to have and to hold. Best to just let you get on with it, okay? Boston is a great opportunity—"

“And that’s what you want,” Harry interrupted. Draco’s face flushed.

“Doesn’t matter what _I_ want,” he mumbled. “It’s what’s best.”

“It’s never gotten you very far to do what you think is best for others,” Harry argued.

It was the wrong thing to say. Draco turned hard, sitting up stiffly and regarding Harry with an expression that was better suited on a drug lord mid-transaction than a shirtless blond man with still damp hair.

“My Portkey is at eight tomorrow. You’re welcome to sleep in. If you take the floo down to the village—Saint-Laves—you can catch an international. I’ll leave you credit.”

“Draco,” Harry whined, exasperated. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

“I'm rather tired, just now," Draco said coldly, laying back down and turning his face away from where Harry stood.

Harry regarded the man whose arse he’d very recently become very well acquainted with and considered his options; run, as Draco was trying to goad him into doing? Not bloody likely. Running meant he didn’t get to kiss Draco anymore.

Not an option.

He grimaced at the floor for a moment longer and then swallowed his pride; he crawled back into bed, plastering his naked frame up against Draco’s back, his face firmly nestled into his neck.

“Sleep, then,” Harry whispered, attempting to quell his frustration with great gulps of vanilla sentenced air. “We’ll talk about Boston later.”

For five minutes, Draco remained rigid and resistant to the cuddle. It was almost impressive, his dedication to pretending he was uninterested in being held. Slowly, though, as Harry drifted back to sleep again, he felt Draco give in. Lean back. Let go.

They fell asleep, intertwined and without a plan for the morning. It was always talking that got in their way. He knew that.

He’d just have to work on talking less.


	19. Chapter 19

Part Four: Restart  
_Winter 2000_

Draco had forgotten about the very large windows that covered most of the wall when he had finally fallen asleep at around three that morning. They usually weren’t a problem, since he went to bed when the sun went down and was ready for when it came back up. This was his natural habitat.

This morning, of course, he woke with a groan. He wasn’t ready to deal with Harry; Harry, who was—presumably—still asleep on his couch downstairs. Harry, who had a bruise on his face, was definitely _not_ in Boston, and who had turned up on his doorstep with nowhere else to go despite three months of complete radio silence. Three months of Draco hiding in the mountains, ignoring owl after owl from various people back in England. Three months of pretending that breaking it off with Harry had been the right decision for them both. He’d shown up in a snowdrift, like a wounded animal, broken and exhausted, not asking Draco for anything except shelter.

And damned if he wasn’t impossibly ready to just save the idiot, despite everything.

Draco got up and leant over the railing from the bedroom stairs, looking down into the living room where Harry was curled in a very familiar fetal ball. The soft grey throw he had bought Draco during their winter together was draped over his body and slipping off his bare shoulders, revealing the barest hint of the phoenix tattoo that Draco had talked him into six months ago. His face was only just visible on the pillow, and the bruise looked darker and more ominous from this distance than it had done the night before. It annoyed Draco to see the dark shape; he didn’t understand why Harry hadn’t just applied some salve since he knew where it was kept.

God knew they’d been here enough times.

He leaned on his folded arms, resting his weight on the rail, and stared at the embers of the dying fire. Harry had left it small the night before, which explained the blanket. There had been so many times they’d forgotten to stoke that fire, but usually, it was for much more thrilling reasons. Reasons like the fact that Draco’s legs had already been wrapped around Harry’s waist. Or the fact that they’d never _exactly_ made it out of bed.

Those first few weeks, they’d been so inseparable. The morning after the first time had been rushed and hectic, sure, with Draco rushing off to work and Harry insisting that he come back to the chalet that night. _‘Take advantage of having your magic back,’_ he’d grinned _. ‘Take a Portkey tonight, come back to me.’_   The surprisingly delicious dinner Harry had managed in his absence had been less rushed, with Pepper Imps for dessert used in _inventive_ ways. They revelled in it, then, the irresponsible choices.

The time between that day and this one fell before Draco in a slow film reel. He played them forward inch-by-painful-inch as he watched the sleeping form that he achingly wanted to hold, to drag near, to heal.

There were weeks spent living mostly in the mountains, with the occasional trip to the villages below, where people recognised Harry and asked him questions that made them both uncomfortable. It was worth it only because there was good cheese and cheap beer, and because when they got home, Draco always made sure to be extra aloof and unimpressed with Harry and his fame, until the silly charade was attacked with giggles and kisses and new memories to replace the old.

There were nights out with Draco’s Muggle friends, who accepted Harry as though he’d always been there and was a staple in their lives. They started calling him even when he wasn’t with Draco, and since Harry was such an excellent friend, Draco didn’t even really mind. At least not until the day that Harry had decided to tell Draco’s boss he was ‘The Boyfriend’ when he arrived to pick up Draco at the end of a shift. He’d been embarrassed and annoyed until she decided to give him a raise of highly dubious nature, and offered him more vacation time than he actually deserved.

There was the confusingly uneventful dinner at his mother’s house, where Harry had spent an entire evening making civil conversation with Narcissa Black as though he wasn’t _Harry Potter,_ as though she wasn’t the very recent widow of an influential Death Eater.

They had made it through the day where Draco had been granted his entire inheritance all at once, including a large share of the Malfoy investments which he would now have to manage. Harry had pushed past Draco’s stiff, class-bred fear, and managed to force him to admit that he needed help. Without question, he’d also helped him hire an accountant. It had turned into a far better day that Draco had ever prepared for during all of his childhood lessons on being a Pureblood Heir, and it was the day where he decided he loved Harry.

In the days and weeks that followed, when Draco had to stand in a Ministry office to deal with his father’s remaining holdings, things were made easier by Harry, who would hold him for hours after until he remembered how to breathe normally. Until his inhalation slowed and he fell asleep. He finally said the words aloud on the third night of this painful ritual and was much adorable blushing from Harry.

There were, of course, the _other_ moments. They could not be discounted. Times where their shared pasts and painful history could not be dismissed as easily as when they were lying in bed, entwined and alone.

The time, for instance, when Hermione had walked in on them in the middle of a rather ambitious experiment with leather. It had only been about a month into their new and confusing relationship, and they had been trying to keep things as discreet as possible. Though she had remained silent, if furious, since their return from the Pyrenees, Hermione’s patience found it’s limits at her sofa’s misuse. She had banished Harry from her house that day, sending him back to his unoccupied flat and his memories of Ginny. It might have been problematic, had he ever actually gone back. Instead, the appeal of Draco’s bed had won the argument, with Harry if not with Hermione.

Then, weeks later, the day when Ron had turned up at Draco’s flat in a furious rage, having checked himself out of treatment with the express purpose of _killing_ Draco; he’d finally heard the news of their tryst from Ginny during a family member visit, one of the few he’d been allowed since entering. That day had ended with a call to the Aurors, an expensive window replacement, and the promise from Harry that they would find a new, unregistered place to live. They had been discussing living together properly long before that day, and in the silent midnight of the day after Ron, Draco had tolerated the conversation; it was easier to discuss curtain colours and furniture amalgamation than the fact that Draco was going to make Harry go to Boston.

The moment, in fact, where Kingsley had insisted on a decision from Harry had been where it had fallen apart. That _last_ day, when Draco had insisted that he wasn’t coming back to London. They’d made a particularly reckless trek to the mountain at Harry’s demand, where he’d brandished his latest letter from Kingsley, the one that made reference to Draco’s appeals to send Harry regardless of his answers. That day, Draco had beaten against Harry’s chest. Screamed and cried, loud and undignified. That day, he’d watched Harry shuffle off in the fall florals, leaving Draco with a pain in his chest and the conviction that he was right.

Suddenly, the reminiscing brought his frustration back.

He’d done it because Harry was just _waiting._ Still. Clinging to any desperate idea that gave him permission to say immobile in his adulthood, to not make any choice at all; Draco hated it. He wanted Harry to find the joy, the excitement. He didn’t want to be the reason that Harry Potter, once again, didn’t get to be who he was supposed to be. Harry was good at this negotiation game, at the subtle politics of redemption. He should be doing it. Being paid. In America.

Draco marched down the stairs as loudly as he could in socked feet and snatched the blanket off of Harry’s shoulders, throwing his rucksack onto his stomach. Draco momentarily gulped at the exposed flesh, at the familiar scars and the dip under Harry’s rib cage that was Draco’s favourite place to attend to because it made Harry mutter the most _delicious—_

“Up,” Draco growled, shaking off his fuzzy lust. “Get up.”

Harry groaned, clutching the bag, covering his eyes with his hands and rolling his face into the couch back. “Early. Shh.”

“Get _up_ , Potter,” Draco repeated, crossing his arms. “And get dressed. We have a Portkey to catch.”

“Hmm?” Harry murmured, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“To London,” Draco said shortly, marching himself back up the stairs and throwing on his clothes from the night before. It hardly mattered what he looked like. He was only staying long enough to ensure that Harry ended up back in the city, then he was coming straight back to his hidden cave of sad loneliness.

Ten minutes later, Harry _was_ miraculously dressed and waiting for him at the front door, his rucksack hanging listlessly from one hand. Draco ignored him as he shoved his feet in his boots and departed, forcing Harry to sigh in a way that made his eyes roll, and follow.

They trudged down the fresh snow until they met the mountain path where Harry’s footprints from the evening before were slowly filling with fresh, white pile. The mountain was so quiet that they could hear the shift of the birds who wintered in the scraggly bushes. Neither spoke; they were silent and both sullen in their own ways, and it made Draco wonder what Harry was thinking, even though he desperately wanted not to care. For ten minutes, they hiked downward and said nothing.

“You going to tell me what happened?” Draco said eventually, the tension getting the better of him as Harry trailed behind him a good distance.

“You already think you know, so,” Harry grumbled. “Don’t see why I should bother.”

“He’s back at it then,” Draco nodded.

“He’s been better, but… yeah. This,” he gestured at the bruise, “was not his fault, actually. “

Draco snorted in derision. “Oh really. Whose fault was it, then?”

“Mine,” Harry said, shrugging when Draco turned to glare at him incredulously. “Well, it was. I mean, Hermione gave me the bruise, but—”

“ _Hermione?_ ” Draco exclaimed, momentarily forgetting, in his shock, that he was supposed to be angry.

“Huh, surprised you’re that surprised. She hit you once, too,” Harry replied, his lopsided grin looking slightly painful, if the wince that followed was any indication.

“No,” Draco protested. “She _slapped_ me. And it wasn’t that—no, never mind. What the fuck do you mean, _Hermione_ gave you the bruise.”

“I—" Harry froze, his face flushing as he looked away. Well-worn embarrassment was a Harry Potter trademark and Draco just shook his head.

“Well, obviously you said something incredibly stupid,” he concluded. “Did it, by any chance, have something to do with the reason why you aren’t in Boston?”

“Maybe,” Harry conceded.

“And that reason is…?” Draco pushed.

Harry sighed, throwing his hands in the air, his exasperation undermarked by the high flush in his cheeks. “You dolt. Same reason I turned up _here_ after it happened.”

Draco stared at him carefully for a moment before shaking his head. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll miss the Portkey.” He ignored Harry’s continued sigh, marching intentionally faster away as his face flushed too.

“She _forbade_ me from seeing you,” Harry said quietly just as they approached the village. “I tried to point out that her forbidding anyone from doing anything had never really worked out in her favour.”

“You idiot,” Draco chuckled.

“Yes, well, my face agrees.”

They remained silent for the duration of their time in the line at the Portkey office. Draco was thinking, carefully considering his options; at the same time, he kept sneaking furtive glances at the side of Harry’s face. Harry, by the looks of things, was studiously pretending that Draco _wasn’t_ looking. By the time they landed back in London, both quickly letting go of the copy of yesterday’s Daily Mirror the second they hit solid ground, Draco had a plan. A plan that was not going to win him any points with anyone, but may work just the same.

“I assume you can get back from here?” he growled, turning on clipped heel before Harry had a chance to answer. “My bike is outside.”

“I’ll just floo.” Harry called after him, “Where will you go? Thought you gave up your flat.”

Draco turned to glare at Harry for a moment, rolling his eyes and walking away without answering; after a few steps, though, he turned back. “Fucking rich for you to say. Where exactly are _you_ going to floo?” Draco sighed when Harry just stared at him. “Let’s go, Potter. I guess I just get to stay stuck with you today.”

Harry looked for a second like he might argue, but he swallowed it down and followed Draco like a whipped puppy, settling a moment later on the back of the bike in a familiar wiggle as he tried to find comfortable perch. Draco knew he didn’t actually mind riding. He had even driven it a couple of times himself, but he sat now like he was made of stone. He stiffly took the helmet when Draco handed it to him, not saying a word as he squeezed onto the seat in front of him, taking care to give Harry as much space as possible. It wasn’t hard, since Harry seemed to be making himself as small as he could, holding firmly to the side handles and refusing to look at Draco’s back. Once he was sitting, he reconsidered his plan for a fraction of a second.

Then, he revved the engine and took off.

* * *

As they whipped through muggle London at record speeds, Harry was forced to consider the small details of this situation he’d created for himself; first, of course, it was reasonable that Draco was very angry with him. Easy to understand, given that after three months of pretending Draco didn’t exist, and possibly also leading him to believe he was in America, Harry had shown up and basically forced him to grant him shelter.

Secondly, he really, _really_ missed this man. Even now, while he was being dragged to unknown locations by a person who had broken up with him and was currently furious. Perhaps _especially_ now, when Draco's hair was flying everywhere, since he’d given Harry his helmet. It kept landing in his mouth because he hadn’t remembered to lower the visor; the vicious wind was hard to notice when he was being constantly distracted by Draco’s hair. Once, Harry inhaled too deeply for the current wind situation. He choked and coughed, but refused to move his hands to Draco’s waist.

Thirdly, this could not possibly be safe. Helmet or no, sixty miles per hour through parked cars in downtown London seemed incredibly dangerous, even for them. He couldn’t help the sigh of relief that escaped him as they slowed outside a tall row of houses, one that clearly had three flats with separate entrances. Draco pulled expertly into a spot across the street. Looking around him, Harry found that they must be somewhere near Kensington. Posh white stone and cobbled streets. The cautious quiet that only existed in the fancier of neighbourhoods. There was a church to his right and a chicken shop just up the street, so Harry assumed that the neighbourhood was largely Muggle.

“Come on,” Draco barked, hopping off the bike and fishing keys out of his pocket. “You can stay here for a bit.” He tossed the keys to Harry and gestured to be followed again. Harry, seeing no alternative, removed the helmet and placed it on the bike before trudging up the steps behind Draco.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“Stay here,” Draco repeated, showing Harry which key to use and pushing open the door that led straight into a modest entryway, an old-fashioned umbrella-and-coat-rack sat beside an ornate bench that was littered in junk mail and leather gloves.

“I'll be back later.” Harry glared at him and Draco simply shrugged in reply. “Is that a problem? You don't have anywhere else to go, do you?” Draco said meanly. “I suppose I should warn you, I have a flatmate, so try not to scare him.”

“Where are you—”

“Just wait _here_ , Harry. I'll be back.”

The softness that had suddenly appeared in his voice had to be Harry’s imagination, because a moment later, Draco had turned and strode away in a stiff, clipped stroll. He started the bike without a backwards glance and left Harry on the landing of an unfamiliar house.

Faced with no other logical option, Harry took himself further inside. He realised quite quickly that this was, without a doubt, a place where Draco lived. Shelves were scattered around every room, each lined with old, leather-bound books and useless, though tasteful, knickknacks. Kitschy little objects, some that Harry recognised. Like the palm-sized blue-glass owl that they’d found together while exploring the village in the Pyrenees. Or the rose embellished miniature teapot from an antique shop at Camden, which was now perched comfortably atop a stack of brightly bound books. There was a staircase that led to another level, which Harry refrained from taking; there was a kitchen that had more pots and knives hanging from the ceiling than Harry had ever owned. The onerous feeling of a life he had missed snuck into his chest and bloomed into an ache. He wanted the life this wall contained, the permanence that the magazines on the table and the dishes in the sink signalled.

Sighing, rubbing his face before remembering the bruise, he took off his shoes, dropped his bag, and settled down on an armchair to wait.


	20. Chapter 20

With Kingsley in tow, he marched up to the small house at the end of the lane, whose doorway he’d only darkened twice in his life. He raised his hand, poised to knock, but found it unnecessary when the door was wrenched open, revealing a glaring Hermione Granger.

“What on earth do _you_ want? He isn’t here,” she spat, already closing the door again. Draco stuck his hand out and stopped her.

“I _know_ that, Granger. He’s at my flat.” He winced. He took a deep breath and started again. “Hermione, we need to fix this.”

“Fix what?” she growled.

“Just… he…”

She glanced back and spotted Shacklebolt, standing there in full robes with his arms crossed. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. “And why have you decided to show up at my door with the Minister for Magic?” she demanded.

Kingsley took a step forward so that he stood beside Draco. “Mr Malfoy suggested there may be the need for a mediator during this conversation. I offered him an alternative, one of my best officers, but he seems to believe there may be some prejudice within the Auror Department towards he and Harry.”

“Are you kidding me?” Hermione growled.

“There will be a systematic review, I assure you,” Kingsley added.

“That's not—” She froze and shook her head sternly. “What do you want me to say?” Hermione said, glaring at Draco again.

“Everything,” he whispered. He shrugged, arms falling to his side in his exhausted defeat. He’d like to be anywhere but here, but he had a Potter, who he hoped was waiting impatiently at his flat, and he had to fix this. Right now. At the very least, he had to try. “Everything you've always wanted to say,” he elaborated. “I wouldn't know where to start, you utter asshole,” Hermione spat savagely.

Draco took a deep breath, wondering if the things he wanted to say were even going to be heard. “Why don't we begin with the fact that I'm in love with Harry,” he murmured. He stared at her hard until he felt like he might explode, but she made no move to respond. Finally, he just shuddered slightly under her withering gaze and looked away. “Is Ronald here? He should be here for this, too.”

She crossed her arms and continued to glare. Draco decided to push on.

“Why isn’t he in Boston?” he demanded suddenly, remembering his original reason for coming. He changed his stance to match her hostile glare, bracing himself against his accusation.

“Excuse me?” she hissed.

“Why isn’t he in Boston?” Draco repeated. “That was the whole point of... of everything—”

“Right, everything,” she snapped. “Just so we’re clear, that would include _you,_ leaving him here. Alone. After he had spent months defending you and your relationship to within an inch of his life? _Everything_ being breaking him into pieces just as he started to get better? Is that what you mean?”

“I was trying to set him free,” Draco argued sadly. “I was just… holding him back.”

“You idiot,” Hermione exploded, shaking her head. “You  _still_ are. Oh sure, he’s had plenty of excuses. Staying until Ron was out of the hospital. Staying until I moved back home. Staying until all the cases he’d worked on were tied up. But you and I both know that’s _not_ why he’s still here.”

Draco had no answer, and so in true Malfoy fashion, he simply shut his mouth, gesturing to Kingsley, who stepped forward primly, the picture of professionalism.

“We have an offer for you. You _and_ your husband actually.”

“We aren’t married,” Hermione said with a glare.

“Is he here?” Kingsley asked, pressing on.

Finally, the resolve in Hermione gave way just a small fraction and her shoulders fell. “Oh, alright,” she grumbled, defeated. “Come in.”

They all marched silently to the kitchen, where Ron looked up from the paper with a look of shock that only lasted a moment before being replaced with fury.

“What in Godric’s name is _he_ doing in my kitchen?” Ron spat.

“He’s with me," Kingsley answered. 

Ron opened his mouth to argue, and Kingsley held up a hand.

"I think, perhaps, you should think long and hard before getting angry around me again, Auror Weasley,” he stated sternly, his voice rattling the glasses on the shelf behind him even though his volume had barely increased. “I’m here to offer you employment in America. They’ve agreed to a sequestered position in the same office as Harry.”

Kingsley paused, rolling his shoulder’s once. When he spoke again, his voice had softened and some of the tension went out of the room. “I have sent them information on your new file system—and _only_ that—and they would be interested in offering you a one year contract to work with them."  
  
Hermione scoffed from her place in the doorframe, and all three of them turned. She looked furious.

"You could start in a week,” Kingsley finished, ignoring her.

“So this is your plan then, Malfoy?" Hermione seethed. "Divide and conquer, until everyone leaves you alone?”

Draco, baffled by her ire, shook his head and immediately tried to protest. “That’s not the point—”

“Just don’t bother,” Hermione roared. “I saw this coming from the very start. You say you love him, yet your plan to keep him is to package up all the complications he creates in your life. To take him as a prize, just like all your other prizes. You’re still the same, Malfoy. You want all the best things, all the pretty things, but without any of the responsibility. Have you also managed to convince him he should be famous, too?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco replied quietly, studying the floor.

“Oh, don’t I? The second he wasn’t going to look _nice_ in front of your little Pureblood Family Tree, you dumped him with some line about Boston—”

“Shut up,” Draco sputtered, childish and frustrated. No one ever let him speak.

“Or what?” Hermione jeered, stepping off the wall and coming up to Draco as though glaring from far away had become too taxing.

“What are you going to do _Granger_?” Draco retorted. “Hit me? That seems to be how you solve your problems now. Taking a leaf out of Weasley’s page, I see.”

“Excuse me?” Kingsley interjected.

Hermione sputtered, hastily trying to cover Draco’s accusation in front of the Minister.

* * *

 Harry sat with a glass of tap water at a very familiar kitchen table, shifting uncomfortably as he waited impatiently. Waiting was torture at the best of times, but he’d been essentially ordered to stay in this strange house, alone, and he had no idea how long he’d be here. Nor did he _really_ understand why he was here in the first place. He bolted from his chair when he heard the door unlatch and a ring of keys jangled into a bowl. He threw himself around the corner into the entryway and froze in his tracks. The man in the entryway also paused, a mirror image of horror and confusion echoing Harry’s internal thoughts.

“Harry?”

“ _Roger?!”_

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Roger asked loudly; truthfully, Harry had never actually heard him so loud. He realised that it didn’t look good, that he was in the flat while Draco wasn’t.

“Draco told me to wait here. What are _you_ doing here?!” Harry replied incredulously, adopting a ludicrous stance of confrontation that he didn’t actually feel.

“I _live_ here,” Roger insisted, laughing as Harry’s expression faltered. “Oh relax, Harry. It’s not like that. Christ, you should see your face. Remind me again why you broke up with him? You two are definitely meant to be together.”

“What?” Harry faltered. “Roger, what’d you mean you live here.”

“Oh I know, I know, it’s super bizarre. Everyone agrees," Roger chuckled. "But it’s fine, I promise. I have a boyfriend, and I’m mad for him. Not to mention that Drew wasn’t ever actually available, was he now? Just waiting for _you_ to get your act together.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Seriously, mate. Calm down. We needed flatmates, we’re making this work. Hey, aren’t you meant to be in America?”

“Never left,” Harry mumbled, still attempting to process.

Roger nodded as though that explained a lot, and he considered Harry for a moment.

“Does the reason you are here have anything to do with that bruise on your face?”

Harry nodded back, unwilling to attempt to explain.

“Come with me,” Roger said gently. “Drew has some pretty good cream for that sort of thing. Got into a bit of a scrape on my bike last week, and two days after, you wouldn't even know.”

Unable to come up with a convincing protest, Harry followed Roger down the corridor to a powder room.

“Here, let me,” he insisted, pulling down the familiar pink tub of lurid yellow paste. Harry wondered how Draco explained the miracle of Wizard Wheezes Bruise Removal Paste to Roger but decided he didn’t really care the second the cool ointment hit his skin. He hadn’t even realised that he’d just accepted the dull ache around his eye until this moment.

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully.

“No problem,” Roger shrugged. “It wasn’t… you didn’t fight with _him_ , did you?”

“No,” Harry insisted. “No, it’s not that. He’s just…”

“It’s fine, you don’t owe me an explanation,” Roger said kindly. His gentle eyes were sympathetic, and Harry remembered exactly why Draco had broken up with him, despite his incredible decentness as a human being. _Not enough fight_ , he had said. Sitting here with Roger now, he understood. He also understood, painfully, why Harry had been the answer to that particular problem. He suddenly felt a pang of shame that he hadn’t understood that earlier. He gulped and looked at the floor.

Roger, unaware of what he’d walked into innocently asked, “So where is he?”

“He’s…”

And as Harry tried to sum up very limited details about Draco’s current location, if only to comfort Roger, it dawned on him that he _knew_ exactly where Draco had gone; the answer was contained within the rapidly shrinking purple mark on his face.

“Roger,” he sighed. “Can I trouble you for a ride?”

* * *

 “Ms Granger, what is Mr Malfoy talking about?” Kingsley demanded.

“Nothing he has any right to be talking about,” Hermione sibilated.

“I think we’ve had enough here,” Ron announced suddenly, standing and using his height to his full advantage in the middle of a tense standoff of the three people around him.

“I don’t think we ever started,” Draco shrugged. “You don’t even realise it—Harry has been holding you _all_ back.”

“So your plan is to split us up!?” Hermione shrieked.

“No, you absolute _moron,_ ” Draco shouted back. “My plan is to keep you all together! The invitation to Boston? That was because of _me_. This Auror position? Me! But you can’t get your head out of the past long enough to look up and realise that you are all just sitting here and slowly dying!”

“What the fuck!” Ron interjected. “Where do you get off? In case you hadn’t forgotten, we saved _your bloody ungrateful_ arse.”

“Yes,” Draco fumed. “Yes, and I did my penitence. The three of you ought to spend some time behind bars. Perhaps then you’d get how _bloody_ wasteful you’re all being.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” an angry voice suddenly interrupted.

Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, with Roger behind him, innocently swinging his keys around his finger, not reacting—in his blissful Roger sort of way—to the fact that there was a tall man standing in brightly coloured robes between very angry people who could, in fact, cause each other quite a bit of harm.

“Outside, right now,” Harry said in a deadly whisper. He seethed when Draco tried to protest. “Draco. Out. _Bloody_. Side.”


	21. Chapter 21

Draco followed Harry, finally feeling free; he knew Harry well enough to know that he had crossed the uncrossable line. Harry might not yet know what was going on in the kitchen, but one did not fuck with Potter’s family. It may have been Draco’s plan all along if he was honest with himself. Push and push until Hermione and Ron snapped and united with Harry. It didn’t really matter if they united against _him._ The results would be the same; Harry could go be free and happy.

“Why is Kingsley in that kitchen?” Harry scowled, wheeling around the second they had stepped out onto the porch.

“He’s offering Ron and Hermione positions with MACUSA.” Draco didn't elaborate. There was no point.

“Why?” Harry demanded anyway.

“So you’ll go to Boston too.”

Harry sighed loudly, scrubbing his face with his hands.

"You are un- _fucking_ -believable, you know that?” he exclaimed, leaving his hands on his cheeks as he glared at Draco.

The exasperation highlighted the flecks of gold in his eyes and gave Draco an unpleasant jolt of hope. The contradiction of feeling cemented two things in his mind; one, he was making the right decision by sending Harry away. Two, he was positive he loved this man. It was hurting him, to distance himself, and yet it was the only choice he was going to make. If that wasn’t love, then he’d had the definition wrong his whole life.

The pair stood in a silent argument on the porch, neither willing to break eye contact or admit to the sadness and anger, to the heartbreak and fear. But finally, Harry slumped, his hands falling to his sides; Draco felt the rejection in the very core of his soul and he inhaled as though he had been punched.

“I get it,” Harry said simply. “I think I understand you. I think I might even understand the _school version_ of you, too. It's not a great feeling.”

“Does that mean you are going to take the job?” Draco asked dispassionately, refusing to look at Harry.

“Do you know why I started looking at you differently, Draco?” Harry demanded. “Even in Azkaban?”

Draco decided he didn’t owe Harry any sort of reaction, refused to speak or nod. Harry continued with barely a pause.

“You were _amazing_ ,” he pressed. “You were so… stuck. Alone, broken and lost. Separated from everything you’ve ever known.”

“So, you only liked me when I was at my worst. Is this meant to flatter me?” Draco grimaced through gritted teeth.

“No,” Harry rebuked. “No, I liked you because you barely _hesitated_ before you just… figured it out. You reinvented yourself, and I had never seen that side of you. I didn’t know you were…”

Draco studied Harry as he thought. He was _beautiful_ ; sure, Draco had often thought ‘he’s fit’ or, in a moment of utter frustration with the words that were constantly pouring out of Potter’s mouth, he’d thought, ‘it’s so annoying that he’s pretty’. But it wasn’t ‘pretty’ or ‘fit’ he saw now.

He saw a man who had been shaped and processed through pain. There were scars at the side of his neck that he didn’t even think Harry knew were there. There was a spot of curl by his left ear that never quite laid flat because it got caught on his glasses. There was a smear of dust on his left lens that just made it obvious that his eyes were still very green, in a strange, deep hue that Draco had never seen on any other human. And as Harry thought, tried desperately to define him and find the word that fit, Draco considered how _he_ defined Harry.

“I didn’t know you were malleable,” Harry finished. “Changing.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I wasn’t who you expected me to be. I don’t see how that’s my fault,” Draco spat.

“No, you still don’t get it. The problem is that you don’t think other people can do the same,” Harry admonished. “We are all in little _us_ shaped boxes. You even have a box for your mother shaped like Sunday roast."

"What? This metaphor makes no sense,” Draco complained, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I know Draco,” Harry exploded. “I fucking know, okay, but that's because this isn't my _job_. You're the one with the fancy words and the begging forgiveness. You're the one with the right to just… be a million different people depending on who you think is watching and I am bloody… just. Never in my life could I have predicted this.”

“Predicted _what,_ Harry?” Draco asked. This conversation was not going to plan, and the longer he had to stand here, being complicated by Harry, the less resolve he had. “Predicted that Draco Malfoy would be here, trying to make sure you get to have a life?”

“I am going to say something, and you are going to listen,” Harry hissed, stepping into Draco’s space and crowding him against the front door. “I am mad. I have been mad for _months._ I am mad, in love with you, and murderous, all at once. And you are going to drive me mental.”

“Well, um,” Draco said haltingly. “Goodbye?”

“What.” Harry clamoured, backing up quickly.

“Well, I mean, you’re leaving right? To Boston?” Draco said, mimicking Harry’s stance in his nervousness. He wanted to just disappear. Full out disappear. He regarded Harry in a cold, distant sort of way that was hauntingly familiar.

 _Familiar_ because he hadn’t used that facial expression since they were both fifteen.

“Oh my god,” Harry said suddenly. “You are a child. I'm dealing with a _child_.”

Draco glared at him, but Harry just shook his head.

“No, you moron,” Harry sighed. “I'm hurt and I want you to fucking apologise. To me and to my friends. And I want you to stop telling me what it is you think I should want, and tell me what the fuck _you_ want. Do you want me to leave, Draco?”

Draco heard the sound that escaped his mouth and knew it was not the one he had intended.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Harry exclaimed, hands in the air. “ _Oh_. Do you? Do you want me to leave?”

“You want to stay?” Draco said instead.

“Against my better judgement, yes. But I seem to be in love with you? I suppose you don't feel the same.”

Draco collapsed into himself a little bit. “How could you possibly think that,” he whispered dejectedly. “How can you still think that.”

“So then stop pushing me away,” Harry begged, moving towards Draco and leaning into his space, without quite touching him.

It had only been three months; three months since Draco had been able to lean into Harry’s slightly shorter frame, inhale his smoky scent and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Harry was seeing _him_ , only him. Not a Malfoy or a Death Eater, not a Slytherin. It was a truth that, now he’d noticed it, was the only constant in their entire history. Even at eleven, even when Harry had truly hated him, it had only ever been because he saw _exactly_ who Draco was; a stuck up snob who couldn’t see past his own ignorance.

Draco couldn’t do it though. He couldn’t just take comfort from the fact that Harry hadn’t left because of him. He had just gotten used to not calling Harry every time he didn’t know how to change the light in the fridge, or when that shoehorn salesman wouldn’t stop knocking on his door. He’d just stood back up on his own two feet, and if he had his way, Harry _was_ going to leave again.

“I can’t,” he said, stepping away until his back hit the frame of the door. He stumbled a step or two when the door opened behind him.

“Yes, you can,” Hermione sighed. It was possible she had other tones of voice, but Draco had never heard them. For all he knew, this was just how she spoke—in a perpetual state of exasperation. Given who she had as friends and lovers, it was entirely possible.

“Granger, just stay out of this,” he growled. He wasn’t really angry, but embarrassment coloured his tone.

“You can, because you’re _also_ going to America,” she elaborated, ignoring Draco entirely and looking to Harry instead.

“What?” they both asked at the same time.

“We talked about it months ago—before Draco had a hissy fit and broke up with you, that is.” She punctuated her statement with a glare for good measure. “Ron and I have realised something since then, though. Harry... you’re happy, aren’t you? I think it took us a while to recognise, what with both of us being stuck so far up our own arses.”

“Come again?” Draco said, a little shocked.

“Well, I’m not unaware that we’ve been pretty crap lately. Collectively. To be clear, I don’t forgive anyone. I’m also not sure Draco is right, for the record. The statistics on people who move their lives to a new place and hope that everything magically gets better are not good.”

“That’s not my goal, Granger.”

“Doesn’t matter. I spoke to Kingsley and he’s agreed. We want to go to America, too. He’ll create a space for you. He’s been impressed with your handling of the estate, apparently. I just talked to him again. I need an apprentice.”

“Granger, what are you on about?” Draco exclaimed.

“If you can handle having a _Mudblood_ as a master, that is,” she added through gritted teeth.

“Hermione, hate to break it to you, but you’ve lost me as well,” Harry grumbled, his arms wrapped protectively around himself.

“We’re all going,” she said patiently. “You, Ron, and I. And Draco, if he wants. That way you two can stop this ridiculous dance.”

They stood locked in a tense standoff, Draco trying desperately to process the statement.

“But you hate me,” Draco said eventually, head cocked because he was so confused. Was Granger offering him a job? And one that could, if he wanted, lead to him being back on track to be a Potion’s Master, perhaps even work for the Ministry one day.

“Well spotted,” Granger snapped. “Can you blame me, Malfoy?”

Draco blushed but shook his head all the same. He really did understand, now, why they might have a bit of a problem with him.

“Nonetheless, you make Harry happy,” she said simply. “And you were always my only rival in Potions grades. I have a feeling that I need the way you think. We can probably sort out the rest long enough to be civil.”

She hesitated, looking at Harry for a moment before turning back to him, emotion gripping her face when she continued. “I’m not discounting how you helped Ron, either. I’m not stupid, that much you know. And I would like the chance to understand what my best friend sees in you.”

“Why?” Draco asked nervously.

“Harry has been wrong about people before, but he’s not easy to persuade once his opinion is formed. He’s stubborn,” she said cautiously. “We trust him. If he’s changed his mind about you, he has a good reason.”

“Ron tried to kill me four months ago,” Draco pointed out.

“Ron has been trying to hurt _himself_ lately. Many times, in many ways,” Hermione corrected. “I’m not saying you are forgiven, but perhaps we can start here and find a way forward. If he allows it, that is.”

She pointed to Harry before dropping her arms to her side, shaking her head with a clear thought of _what have I gotten myself into_ plastered on her face. Nonetheless, she turned and opened the door again, shrugging before she closed it behind her.

“So?” Harry asked gently a moment later.

“America?” Draco replied, stepping off the wall and closing the gap between them.

“You’ll have to stop breaking up with me,” Harry smirked, wrapping his arms around Draco and pulling him in, tucking his head under Draco’s chin and kissing him delicately on his Adam’s apple, where a chuckle made the kiss vibrate against his skin.

“I could try, I suppose, but you’re so infuriating,” Draco teased.

In this single, nearly-silent agreement, a beginning was formed. One of many that Potter and Malfoy had attempted over many, many years. Time and again, there had been starts and stops, beginnings and endings. They were hardened and bitter, both of them realistic. There were trying times ahead; no one ever argued that moving countries with the man who may have once been your enemy and was now possibly back to being your boyfriend was a wise decision. There aren’t exactly books on the subject.

Still, as Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and made sure that they still felt stable and balanced, the opportunity flooded his senses with the possibility of it all. The life he wanted was laid out before him; he could rent himself a little flat, one above some strange city thing— a bowling alley, perhaps. Or a dry cleaner. He would learn potioncraft from Granger, who was actually pretty impressive, even if he didn’t _quite_ know what it was she did with the potions she brewed. He could open his own little apothecary, like he’d dreamed of when he’d first started potions classes. He’d never given it much thought, since his path had been predestined at that point. One day, perhaps a year from now, he’d live with Harry again. They could have the life he wanted, the one he’d tried on with Roger, but this time it would be the right fit.

“Can’t believe you’re living with Roger,” Harry mumbled with his lips still on Draco’s neck, as though he had been reading his thoughts. Draco laughed, and Harry pulled back incredulously. “It’s not funny! Did you bring me to your house just so I’d run into him?”

“No, but it’s been a nice side effect,” Draco admitted. “Harry Potter, you are such a jealous man. Wait until I sell that headline to the papers.”

“You would too,” Harry murmured, settling himself back into Draco’s chest. He was only a head or so shorter, but Draco would never get over how perfectly _right_ that was. “Can't help it. I don’t share well.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed, pulling closer. “Don’t worry. Me either.”


	22. Chapter 22

Part Five: Future  
_Boston, 2002_

When five people started clapping and cheering uproariously in the small ministry office of MACUSA’s Boston Branch, it was possibly the loudest it had been in this area of the dusty old Potions and Magical Maladies floor in a hundred years. The only time anyone recalled a more disruptive day had been when that Occamy had escaped its shoebox.

The tiny gathered crowd couldn’t help it; there was nothing else to do but cheer when Draco Abraxas Malfoy signed his final papers stating he had successfully completed his Potion Master’s Apprenticeship.

Harry, sitting front and centre, was revelling in the knowledge that no one was more surprised about the achievement than Draco himself. Draco, who had given up on achieving _anything, at all,_ three separate times in his life; once, when he’d been standing on the precipice between child and murderer on a humble tower. Again, as he wasted away his days in a cell of his own creation, giving his stories to a man he barely knew in the hopes that a tiny fraction of himself would be preserved in someone else’s memories. A final time when he’d stood in the grass of a Muggle house and realised he had lost everything he’d ever been.

This day should not have been possible. But he stood there, quill in hand, and faced a gaggle of Gryffindor friends there was no chance he’d admit to adoring. Harry knew, by the grin on his face and the complete lack of embarrassment he was showing from all the fuss, that Draco was proud.

Two years in Boston. It was hard to believe, looking back, that they hadn’t been here all along. It fit, it suited all of them. They were brighter, they were softer. They were a million contradictions and yet a cobbled together family of sorts. They had all fought hard to get there; separate and individual battles, hard and painful work to accommodate the space needed for this imperfect relationship.

Kingsley looked like a proud father, which might annoy Harry later. He didn’t get any of the credit for the post-Azkaban parts of Draco. The only person responsible for that was Draco.

Luna had never needed much convincing, and it hadn’t really taken long for Ginny to join her; one evening of board games on her knees in Ron and Hermione’s old house had done wonders for bringing her along, and when they moved, it only really took Draco insisting on arranging a surprise international Portkey so that Ginny and Luna could be there for Harry’s birthday for her to be swayed. Ginny was now firmly Team Draco. But then, she’d been the least personally attacked by him.

Hermione, more easily persuaded by hard work and dedication than flashy acts of love, had been hard on Draco for six months. His small flat above the cafe on the east side of the city had nearly been destroyed twice in the process; she’d tasked him with a time sensitive potion whose instability centred around temperature fluctuations, and then made him take it home. But Draco had not given up. He never flattered her or tried to work his way into her heart. He just kept his head down, did the things she asked him to, barrelled forward. Eventually, without any big announcement, Hermione had started to invite Draco round for dinner, tell stories about the two of them ‘at work’, and bought him a gift at Christmas. She had silently let him in, and Harry would always be grateful.

Ron was the last to come around. Not surprising, since he’d hardly been in a good place when they had moved. Although he'd had the most work to do to settle into a new life and when they’d first arrived in the new city, he’d done the best at transitioning. The Auror department welcomed him wholeheartedly, took on his changes as the head of a division, and had a new outlook on law enforcement by the end of month one. With his Ministry mandated healer, he’d started therapy, took to it with the force that only a Weasley could, and was suddenly very capable of talking war. He hadn’t come home drunk since that night on the porch, had apologised to everyone—even Draco—for harm caused.

That didn’t, however, translate into trust. He was getting there, Harry could see it. He didn’t really mind that it was taking longer. He had time.

Draco wasn’t going anywhere.

They were all so different now; they knew themselves better, knew this new city like it was home. Knew the new versions of life as well as they’d known their Hogwarts selves.

Most notably, however, was this; Harry Potter was happy. He was happy with Draco Malfoy. Since there were no real objections to this single truth, he decided to barrel forward the way he had always done.

He planned to stay that way for as long as the universe would allow.

* * *

 

_We know the fire awaits unbelievers_

_All of the sinners the same_

_You and I will die unbelievers_

_Bound to the tracks of the train_


End file.
